Ambiguity
by EpitomeOfCool
Summary: When Max goes to College, the last thing she expects to find is her archenemy, Fang, in all of her classes. Will they ever get on? FAX
1. Surprise!

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

Fang is the bane of my existence. He's a torment I've been subjected to endure throughout my entire school life. And even now, at the age of 18 and attending College, he's here. With me. Same class. The row in front.

Do you see my predicament?

We don't get on. At all. Never have and never will. On my first day in Kindergarten he stole my juice. But me being me, refused to be taken advantage of so lightly and pushed him. He pushed me back, so I pushed him harder and then it became a full on scrap and the teachers had to restrain us. Fang had even bit one of them, thus why I call him Fang. No one else does though; he's just plain old devastatingly good looking (latter description provided by my sister, Ella, and numerous others, not me!) Nick Ride.

Ever since that fateful day we have exchanged snide comments, pulled pranks (I so won that war), and numerous other ways to rub each other up the wrong way. Antagonising him usually provides a good source of entertainment, only it also gets me into heaps of trouble. For example, painting his locker pink and plastering posters of him over the school when he was a kid taking tap lessons (because his mom 'forced' him to, says he), earns you a two day suspension. Locking him in a cupboard costs you a weeks suspension (how was I supposed to know he was claustrophobic?). And then, adding up all the other 'incidents', notably Fang stealing my clothes from the locker room and leaving them on the roof (I'd never been so embarrassed), meant we'd come as close as you could get to being expelled. I'm pretty sure the only reason we'd been allowed to remain at the school was because of my mom, the vet, who had saved the Headmaster's cat Snowdrop. Only this time, I'm sure my mom's reputation will not secure my place here. I've promised her already that the old Max is gone, and the new, well-behaved Max is here to stay. It's just going to be harder than I'd first envisaged.

I hadn't realised he'd be majoring in English, much like myself, until I'd walked in and saw him sitting in the front row, girls flocking around him, gawking. I was devastated.

He'd been pretending to read his textbook when I'd walked in, feigning ignorance to his growing fan club. But I knew he was only too well aware of their less-than-obvious gawking because of the tenseness in his shoulders. He kept biting his lip, too, something he only ever did when he was nervous. I almost felt sorry for him. _Almost._

I've never really understood the attraction most females feel towards him. I have yet to see how those physical attributes are so appealing: dark shaggy hair that has that just-got-up look about it; obsidian eyes that are the only way of discerning his emotions when he wears a permanent mask of reticence. Smiling is oh so rare for him. Although, when I'd entered the room and he'd looked up, I could have sworn, just for a second, that his lips had twitched upwards in the Fang equivalent of grin.

I'd scowled. His reply? A raised eyebrow.

The class is mostly full now, all save a few remaining seats towards the back where I sit.

A large bulging man suddenly enters the classroom with a decrepit briefcase in hand. He has grey thinning hair and half moon-shaped glasses that are perched on the bridge of his nose. He stands at the front of the classroom, moving back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

"Welcome," he says. "My name is Mr. Smith." He smiles.

"If you speak to any of my previous students, they will tell you I'm a hard task setter. They'll tell you that I'm unfair, that I don't understand that there's a party tonight and they just have to go and won't be able to write my 3,000 word essay for the next day. Well, I say tough. You're here to work, first and foremost, and if you have time, which you won't, you can do what you like."

A chorus of groans reverberates across the room. I have a feeling I may not be seeing all of these people tomorrow.

I slip my notebook out of my bag, knocking my pen off my desk. It settles under Fang's seat, landing next to his boot. _Damn_. He looks down, picks it up and turns round, his eyes locking with my own.

_Give it,_ I mouth. An annoying grin stretches its way onto his face as he imperceptibly shakes his head. _Jerk._

Fang turns round and begins tapping _my_ pen then. It's _so_ annoying! _Tap-tap-tap…_ Ugh. I'm about to tell him to stop when a loud _thwack_ draws my attention back to the front. Mr. Smith has smacked his ruler down in front of a Fangirl (see what I did there: fan becomes Fang in…oh, never mind), who had been practically _drooling_ over Fang (no joke, there's saliva on the desk). How pathetic!

"I expect your sole concentration. Those of you who have also opted for the Creative Writing class will be fortunate enough to have me," he says, pauses, and then remarks, "please don't all cheer at once."

I smile. I wouldn't mind having him for both of my classes: I like his sense of humour.

"This term we will be studying a creative masterpiece: a contemporary romance novel written by Hayley Knight. The book is called _Ambiguity _and displays duel messages of how everything is not as it seems, and how easy it is to mistake loathing for love."

_Why?_ I hate romance novels. I _loathe_ mush. It's just so unrealistic and so dramatised that it makes the chances of the events in Stephen King's work more likely. Love at first sight in juxtaposition to ghosts influencing the actions of a caretaker: I'd go for option number two as the more likely probability of _actually happening_.

I sound bitter, perhaps, but that stuff never lasts. My mom had divorced Jeb (I couldn't call him Dad after all he'd done – after all he _hadn't_ done) when I was 5. He'd been cheating and I'd caught him. He said he'd stop, but he didn't. I didn't say anything to my mom, how could I? We were a family and I didn't want to split the three of us up (Ella had yet to be born). But it didn't matter, because a few months later, he finally told Mom and left us to be with _her_. I haven't seen him since. A year later my mom had a boyfriend and it had looked pretty serious, like they were going to get married and we'd be a family. I'd liked him a lot, too. That had ended as well when Mom told him she was pregnant with my half-sister, Ella, and just like Jeb, he left.

"I want you all to read Chapter 1 by tomorrow for an in-depth discussion," Mr. Smith continues, "because if I allow you to roam the campus now, I will expect your full attention tomorrow." He gives us all pointed looks from behind his desk.

"Those in my Creative Writing class will also be given the day off. But I will, however, be expecting to see a sample of your work tomorrow. I don't mind what genre: poetry, a short prose, whatever. I don't care what it's on as long as it's _good _and shows me what I'm dealing with."

I'm excited, and practically revving to go. This is exactly what I want to do: write, and immerse myself in cleverly constructed prose. And I like my teacher: he seems as if he's going to work us hard, stretch us and throw (not literally) book after book at us. I can't wait. The only downside to all this is that Fang is in the class.

"Disperse," Mr. Smith barks. And as one, we all stand up, and file out of the room. I walk behind Fang, glaring daggers at his head. If he can turn round, I'll finally know whether looks can actually kill.

He's leaning against the wall when I enter the hall, his lips twisted into an unholy grin as I give him my best death glare.

I continue glaring. And he's _still_ there. I guess looks can't kill. Damn. I'm just going to have to take a more direct approach if I want my dream to reach fruition.

The redhead that had sat next to Fang is also waiting at the end of the hall, watching us intently. I wave at her, plastering a fake smile onto my face in which she reciprocates with a dirty look: slitty eyes and firmly pursed lips. So scary (note sarcasm).

"What the hell are you doing here?" I snap.

"Going to College," he replies. "What are_ you_ doing here? Are you stalking me?" He's grinning from ear to ear, humour dancing in his eyes. Oh, I so want to wipe that sorry smirk off his face.

"Don't flatter yourself," I growl. "I have better taste."

He places his hand over his heart (as if he had one), feigning hurt. "That's cold. I may have to write a formal complaint about you for verbal abuse. But luckily, I have a pen here," he tauntingly swings my pen in front of my face, provoking me. I leap for it, only to have it pulled from out my reach at the last second. He begins swinging it just above my head then, which is _way_ out of my reach since he's a good four inches taller than me. The height difference is just another reason to despise him.

"Just give it me back, Fang," I snap. "_Now_."

"Manners Maxie?" I let out a shrill cry, my hands clenching into tight fists. I hate that nickname, and _everybody, _including Fang, knows that it's a big _no no_.

I lean in closer. "Listen Fangie," I begin, his eyes narrowing at my own nickname for him, "you don't like me, and I ain't so fond of you either. What say we try to get along this year?"

He strokes his chin thoughtfully.

"Don't think too hard," I say, "I don't want you to override your brain for tomorrow."

He rolls his eyes. "Just thinking of some terms and conditions."

I shake my head. "The only term is we avoid each other. I ignore you, you ignore me. It's simple."

He grins. "Could you really ignore this?" he asks, his outstretched hand indicating his body.

"Trust me, my eyes will be so relieved. It causes me a lot of pain looking at _that_."

"Causes you a lot of pain knowing that you _can't_ have that," he amends, "though I never actually said I wasn't interested." He smiles then, not a grin, but an actual smile…with teeth. My heart gives a tight squeeze: he has a nice smile. He leans in closer then, his minty breath washing over my face. We're so close that I'm sure just another inch closer and our noses will be touching. My breathing hitches.

I jolt back, unnerved by our close proximity. _Jerk._

His grin instantly disappears in exchange for the mask. I look to his face, but he refuses to make eye contact, almost like he's embarrassed. Only Fang is _never_ embarrassed.

He shoots a fleeting glance at the clock on the wall, turns on his heel, and doesn't look back.

_What the hell was that?_


	2. New Acquaintances

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride**

**I have made a slight alteration from previous chapter – Max's parents have now divorced when she was 5 instead of when she was 8**

_Ambiguity: Extract from Chapter 1_

"_Hey, can I get served?"_

_Samantha turns round from wiping the shelves and walks towards the young man who has called her. He gives her a dazzling smile, and she idly wonders why his type would ever succumb to a place like this: a grotty pub on a grotty street, with even grottier customers. All save him, of course, who is positively pristine in an immaculate grey suit. He's handsome with dark hair and even darker eyes, easily attracting the attention of the middle-aged women settled in the booths, their partners scowling at the competition._

_He orders a pint of Carling and asks, "No Betha today?"_

_She doesn't look up from pulling the pint, intent on not making any mistakes and making a fool of herself. "She's left," she reports._

"_Oh." He retrieves his pint and hands Samantha his money. "Well, I haven't been in here for a while. But if you'll be attending the bar from now on, I'll definitely make it a priority to come in here more often."_

_She inwardly rolls her eyes, using all of her self-control to not verbally snap and jab at him. What a…_

"_My name's David," he tells her._

_She nods, not reciprocating her own name, and turns her attention to the dust smothered shelves behind her._

I yawn, stretching my long legs out in front of me. I shouldn't have been tired: it was what…6 o'clock? I hadn't seen Fang since our earlier encounter and that was just fine with me: the less I see of him the better.

I'd just spent the last half hour reading our assigned book: Ambiguity. There have been no puke-your-guts-out scenes so far, but I still have a feeling it's going to be one of those stereotypical romance novels. Chapter 1 is just introduction time: Samantha, the female protagonist, has just encountered the total sleeve ball, David. I feel sorry for her, really: first day on the job, trying to save up to go to College, and she encounters _that_. Life just ain't fair.

"Max?" Dinner's ready," my mom hollers from the bottom of the stairs.

I slip a scrap of paper in the book to mark my place and charge down the stairs. You would too if your mom makes the best food. _Ever_. And tonight, it's Mexican.

Mom and my sister, Ella, are already seated at the table when I slide to a halt in the doorway. You can tell they're mother and daughter straight away: tanned skin, dark hair and dark eyes, the same bone structure. And then there's me: the black sheet, somewhat, with brown hair intermingled with a few a natural blond highlights, pale skin, and, according to Ella, chocolate-coloured eyes. Unfortunately, I'd taken after Jeb for most of my physical attributes.

"Finally, you grace us with your presence," Ella quips, spooning sauce onto her plate. I grin: she's getting more and more like me everyday. I'm so proud.

"Oh Ella, I hadn't realised you'd missed me so much," I say.

"Terribly."

I roll my eyes and settle in beside her.

"What _have_ you been doing, Max?"

"Reading," I mumble through a mouthful of food. "Mmmm, this is good. Pass the sauce?"

My mom passes me the bowl and I swallow. "Been given this book called Ambiguity. Some romance-crap."

Ella shakes her head. "Romance novels are _not_ crap. You read way too much Stephen King – you need to get in the real world."

"I am! What proof do you have to say that Ghosts and Psychics _don't _exist, huh?" Oh, I so had her there.

"There's more chance of you finding love than finding a ghost," Ella reasons. She pauses. "No, I'm wrong," she continues. "For you to find love you'd actually have to stop scaring the male population. I don't see that happening in the near future, so continue being a Ghostbuster."

I gape, about to protest, when Mom asks, "Did you get time to explore the campus? Did you make any new friends?"

I smile. "Actually…"

After walking the length and breadth of the campus (it's a big place), I'd settled on taking refuge in the music department. My train wouldn't be coming for another half hour: I'd deliberately gone to a College that would allow me to live at home.

Melodic phrases had met my ears as soon as I'd entered the room: a sole violin had begun, its notes long and flowing. A second violin joined in then, its notes clipped in a staccato-like fashion. It was a total contrast to the first, and yet complimentary all the same. And then a viola and cello had added further layers to the piece. A smile had stretched its way onto my face because I'd missed the sound of orchestral playing. I'm a pianist, and had played in my school's orchestra until the numbers had dwindled to so few that we'd been subjected to end it. I don't think you could constitute a cello, a violin, a flute, a guitar (who refused to play anything but rock – diverse much?), and a pianist (me), as much of an orchestra though.

As soon as they'd finished the Concerto, they'd focused their attention on me. I hadn't realised they'd noticed my being there: I thought I'd slipped in totally unnoticed, having not wanted to disturb them. I'm pretty sure my cheeks had been a flaming red.

"Hi," I'd began, "that was great! Bach right?"

The boy playing First had nodded and stood up, tentatively placing his violin on the chair. He was tall, almost as tall as Fang, and had chestnut coloured hair that he'd brushed back from off his forehead. He had strong features and a nice smile as he stuck his hand out for me to shake.

"Impressive. I'm Sam. Do you play?"

"Max," I'd introduced. "I'm a pianist, but my younger sister plays the violin."

"Cool. Mind if I ask how good you are?"

I'd shrugged. I'd been told I was good and had even won some competitions. But what they'd just done? Now that was _good_. "I have a diploma," I'd admitted, "but I achieved that a couple of years ago. My playing regime has slipped somewhat since then. School got in the way – too much homework, and I'd decided not too pursue music as a career so..."

"Didn't fancy it?"

"No, it's not so much that," I'd said, "but I love to write as well. It was a hard decision, but I decided to major in English."

The other three players had then delicately placed their instruments down, and settled themselves on either side of Sam. The girl, who I recognised as playing Second Violin, was easily dwarfed by her three male players. She'd flicked an overly long fringe from out of her eyes and had said, "I'm Jennifer-Joy, but just call me JJ."

"Phil," the tall, lanky Cellist had introduced himself as. He'd smiled with a mouth full of braces, his boyish-good-looks marred by skin covered in angry red splotches. His eyes, however, seemed to have a somewhat playful twinkle in them that suggested he has a good sense of humour.

The last payer, a Viola, graced me with pearly white smile. He was the tallest out of the three, but unlike Phil, had broad shoulders that strained against a denim jacket. He had a more sturdy, muscular physique than Fang, his blond hair and blue eyes another total contrast. "I'm Dylan. It's nice to meet you," he'd said, sticking his hand out for me to shake. I'd reciprocated, his hand seeming to cling to mine for a moment longer than necessary.

"Right," Sam had said, a tinge of annoyance seeping into his voice as he'd squeezed himself between Dylan and I. "I was wondering, and I'm sure the others will agree, whether you'd like to play with us? We could use a pianist."

"…and so," I continue, smiling at Mom and Ella, "I'm going to be playing with them some time. You'll have to hear 'em one of the days El, they're really great."

Ella nods.

"I'm glad you'll have a group to play with again, Max. Maybe we'll be hearing you playing at home more now. The piano was gaining dust."

"That's just because Max keeps forgetting to do her chores,' Ella corrects.

I narrow my eyes dangerously at her, flipping her the bird when I'm sure mom's not looking.

"Charming," Ella mumbles.


	3. Maybe Fang Does Have A Heart

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Thanks a lot for the reviews.**

**Responding to a question posed in a review, the novel referred to, Ambiguity, was created solely for this story and is not a published book.**

I tap my foot along with the beat of the violin, smiling as I join in with a few simple chords on the piano. I've missed this.

My hands begin to fly across the keys: the tempo having sped up to a more cantered rhythm from its languid beginning. I look up to watch Sam playing the violin. The upper part of his body is rocking back and forth as he grinds the notes out across his bow, really getting into the music.

I begin to slow down when JJ and Dylan enter the room, Sam instantly taking the hint to wrap up our little improvisation piece.

"Wow," JJ says, "I'm impressed. Why aren't you majoring with us in Music again, Max?"

I smile, relieved at her positive comment. I'd been worried I may not compare to them: the disparity in our abilities so great they'd have to find someone else to jam with. Normally, I don't give a damn about what people think about me – _do they like my clothes? Will they think I'm too abrupt?_ But this is different. It's important to me and I like these guys. I want them to think that I'm _good_ _enough_.

"That was amazing, Max," Dylan commends, gracing me with a dazzling smile – that guy has seriously white teeth. I give him a small smile in return.

_Thump!_

_Crash!_

The door swings open, slamming against the wall. Phil's head peeps just above his cello case as he struggles to heave it through the door.

"Hey guys," he calls, as bright and bubbly as ever.

I go to help him, pulling the neck of the case towards me as he shoves the bottom half into the room.

"Thanks," he says, "it's times like these I wish I'd opted for something like a flute or the violin. Although…" He flexes his arm, pointing to what I think should be…a muscle? "It's a bit like lifting weights. Gives you a real work out."

I nod, biting back a witty retort. Not everybody reciprocates my sense of humour.

JJ comes over and frowns. "I don't see anything, Phil. No muscle there."

"_What?_" He looks to his flexed arm and gestures, "how can you _not_ see that?"

"Guys!" Sam shouts, "Max has got class in 30 minutes, so if we want to play, we've got to get a move on."

* * *

I slip in as quietly as I can, cringing as the doors' squeaky hinges deny me my intended subtle and silent entrance. Isn't that just _great?_

Mr. Smith stands at front of his desk, addressing his all seated and all ready class. When he hears my approach he turns round sharply, frowning.

"Sorry I'm late," I apologise, "I…I got a bit lost."

He raises an eyebrow, the lines on his forehead becoming ever more prominent.

"Lost? Couldn't you get your bearings yesterday? I'll have to give you a map," he responds curtly. "Do you have your Creative Writing piece?"

I nod, sifting in my bag for the piece. _Where is it? It's in here somewhere…_

A multitude of sheets cascade from my bag, most of which are music, scattering across the floor. _Damn._

I can only imagine the exaggerated patience plastered across Mr. Smiths face. "Take your time Miss Martinez."

I know my face is flushed red, and I know I've just made a complete fool of myself on only my second day here: the redheaded Fangirl, who I've also nickname the Red Haired Wonder, snickers and whispers not so inconspicuously, "what a loser." _What a bitch._

I scowl at her as soon as I've given Mr. Smith my work. Fang sits beside her, wearing that characteristic smirk of his. I give him a swift kick as I pass him, smiling in satisfaction as he grunts in pain, the smirk gone.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Ride?" Mr. Smith asks.

"No," Fang replies through clenched teeth, "just got cramp in my leg, Sir."

"Well, if there will be no more interruptions, I'll continue."

* * *

I'm walking down the hallway when Fang suddenly appears beside me. Class has just finished.

"Didn't think you'd taken Music," he says, obviously having taken note of the sheet music I'd all but emptied on the floor when searching for my work.

I frown. "I haven't. I'm just playing along with a few string players, that's all. What's it to you?"

He holds his hands up at my sharp tone. "Just asking. Trying to be civil."

"That's a first."

"Max!" Sam stands at the end of the corridor, waving my jacket like a bright blue beacon. Damn. I'd been in such a rush I'd forgotten to retrieve it.

The grin on his face, however, vanishes when he notes Fang at my side.

"Who's this?" Sam asks, a little reproachful.

"My archenemy," I answer, taking back by jacket, "F-Nick." I'd almost forgotten: Fang is_ my_ nickname for him. Nick is what everyone else knows him as.

"Who are you then?" Fang questions.

"A friend of Max's," he replies, and smirks. "She doesn't hate _me_."

A tight smile forms on Fang's lips. "She's mistaking hate for love."

My mouth drops open: I can feel it agape, like a fish, and I'm pretty sure my cheeks are tinged red. "No!" I protest, "I think you need your head checking if that's what you think. Maybe the doctor could also tell you how small that brain of yours is – if one can actually be located, that is."

He smirks at my expression: the upturn of his lips not fake like the tight smile he'd given Sam. He's enjoying this, that _jerk._

"Can't keep denying your feelings for me, Max," he says, and walks off. What a stupid thing to say! How can he even contest such a thing when it's obvious I hate his guts? What would…

"Max?" Sam waves a hand in front of my face, and I vaguely wonder how many times he's already done that to grab my attention.

"Huh?"

"You spaced out," he explains. "Just wanted to let you know that we do gigs sometimes and play at schools, promoting music and whatnot. We just wanted to know if you'd be interested? Some of these are paying gigs so…"

I wave off the money, because I really don't care about that. "I'd love to. I haven't played in front of an audience in forever. It'd be good to get out and playing again."

A grin breaks out across his face. He looks relieved. "Great. I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

* * *

I'm splayed across the settee, clad in shorts and a tee shirt plastered in bright fluorescent ducks ('cause they're cool), with a book in hand when the doorbell rings.

"Max, will you get that?" my mom asks.

I don't want to get up: I'm way too comfy. "Can't Ella get it?"

"She's with me."

I groan as the doorbell rings again. "Coming," I mumble, "hold your horses you interrupter of good books and comfy positions."

For the third time that day my mouth hangs open and I'm asking myself what I've done to deserve this kind of torture.

"Fang, what the _he_…"

My archenemy puts his finger to his lips and points to the two younger blond kids in front of him. He gives me a look that speaks volumes: _no swearing in front of the kids._

I frown, and crouch down to the kids' level. "Hello," I greet.

A small blond girl waves at me, smiling big to reveal a gap where one of her front teeth has fallen out. The young boy gives me a small smile, and I smile back.

I look to Fang, asking, "What are you…"

But before I can finish, my mom appears. "Oh, hey Nick. Come in."

"_What?_" I look to my mom, confused. Fang is _not_ coming in my house. _Do we have any embarrassing pictures in the house? I'm pretty sure the baby ones are all tucked away in an album somewhere. But…Ella could give him all the ammunition he'd ever want. Note to self: bribe Ella to keep mouth shut r.e will buy her new shoes._

"I saw Nick at Wall Mart and overheard him on the phone to his babysitter, who'd cancelled. I offered to look after Angel and Zephyr while Fang's at work," she explains.

"Thanks again," Fang says to my mom, his voice sincere and polite. Huh, if only he could be like that with me.

I look over at both of the kids: I hadn't even recognised them. I'd last seen Angel when she was one and Zephyr (we'd all known him as the Gasman though, or Gazzy, due to his funky digestive system) when he was three, and that had been almost five years ago now. My mom had occasionally babysat both of them when she'd been a close friend of Fang's mom: their friendship having transpired from years in the waiting room outside the Principles office when Fang and I had gotten in trouble. I'd barely seen Miss Ride for the last couple of years, which I'd assumed was because my mom had become gradually busier running her own veterinary clinic.

I turn to Fang, realising he's giving me sweeping glances up and down, wearing that oh so annoying smirk of his: the one I always wanted to wipe off with a slap or a punch. Normally the latter.

_Nice ducks_, he mouths, while my mom ushers Gazzy and Angel inside.

I turn sharply away from him, walking over to the kids, purposely ignoring him. How dare he mock the ducks!

"I don't suppose you guys remember me, do you? You've both grown so much since I last saw you," I say, ruffling Gazzy's hair. "I'm Max."

Gazzy and Angel's eyes light up in recognition. "We've heard Mom and Dad talking about you and Nick before, and how you both get into lots and lots of trouble at school pulling pranks on each other. Mommy thinks you secretly like each other," Angel reports.

"_What?"_

"Got to go now, guys," Fang says, having not heard our conversation. It seems strange them all being related. Gazzy and Angel are pale, blond haired and blue eyed, while Fang has olive toned skin, dark hair and even darker eyes. But then I suppose it's appropriate really: they're the ethereal beings, while Fang is the devil incarnate.

"What time will you or your mom be collecting them? Or will it be your dad? I haven't seen them both in over a year. How are they doing?" Mom asks.

Fang's jaw seems to clench at that. I look at him intently. He catches my eye, but instantly looks away, almost as if he's afraid I'll see something. He bites his lip.

"Dad left a few months ago," he explains. I feel a slight squeeze in the pit of my stomach, sympathsising with him, because I know what that's like. I try catching his eye, just so that I can give him an encouraging smile, telling him that it's all going to be ok. I have the sudden urge to wrap my arms around him so that he's knows he's not alone and that I'm here and…

_Hold up. This is _Fang_. Hello? You're archenemy. Get a grip, Max._

"Oh dear," Mom says. "How are you all dealing with it? Do you mind if I ask whether it was a mutual breakup?"

My mom looks guiltily over at Angel and Gazzy then, the look on her face citing her look of panic over whether she should have spoken so openly in front of the kids.

"They know," Fang consoles, reading her expression. "Don't worry. Our parents hadn't been getting on for a while. Dad decided to just leave one day: packed up his stuff and left a note. Haven't seen him or heard from him since." He seems indifferent to the whole ordeal, but I can easily discern his clenched jaw and his rigid stance. He isn't ok.

My mom shoots him a sympathetic look. "How are you all holding up? How's your Mom?"

He shrugs. "She's been better, but we'll get through it."

"I better not keep you any longer. Where's Iggy?"

Iggy is Fang's fifteen-year-old brother. I haven't seen him in almost five years either, and when I think back to him, I remember a tall, lanky kid with blond hair and blue eyes magnified by thick horn rimmed glasses.

"At a friend's. I'll try to get off as soon as I can. Won't be any later than eight. Thanks again, Miss Martinez."

Angel and Gazzy both hug him tightly, with Fang equally reciprocating the gesture. I've never seen this side of him. It's eerie. Almost as if he has a heart.

"Be good," he says.

* * *

After about four hours of limb-twisting Twister, cookie baking ('cause they're just yummy), and a Disney film, Fang returns to collect his siblings.

They're great kids, and just _so_ sweet. It's because of Angel's Bambi eyes (they're lethal) that we'd all, save mom, been roped into playing Twister. I now have a sore back, which twelve-year-old Ella claims is because of my "old" age. I wonder if Fang and I can exchange sisters. I'll have to pose that proposition to him later.

I'd gleaned from Angel that they're Mom has a new job and has recently been seeing less and less of them, and so Fang has had to take the reigns, which is admiral considering he has three younger siblings and has just begun College.

"Ready to go guys?" I ask.

Angel is beside me, curled up on the settee, half-asleep.

Fang picks her up gently and asks, "How were they?"

"They were both just fine," my mom tells him. "Max made sure to keep them entertained."

He gives me an imperceptible nod in thanks.

"How are you getting home?" My mom asks.

"Bus."

She shakes her head. "I'll take you back. It's too late and they're both really tired."

"It's ok. I don't want to put you out. We'll be fine, honestly."

Sometimes I see glints of myself in my mom: stubbornness obviously being an innate trait from her, because when she sets her mind on something, she does it. Like now.

"Meet me in the car," she orders, and walks outside, shepherding the half-dozing Gazzy with her. "Come on, Zephyr. Let's get you strapped in."

"See you, Gaz," I say.

That left a sleeping Angel, Fang and I. "Where do you work?" I ask him, mildly curious.

In the dark I can barely discern the almost imperceptible upturn of his lips. "I'm an assassin."

I roll my eyes.

"I like to fulfill my final contracts at night, under the sheath of darkness. Anyone you want rid of?" he continues.

"Don't suppose suicide is in your contract?" I ask.

"No," he says, walking outside. "But I think you'd miss me too much."

"I'm sure I'd survive."

I help him manoeuvre Angel into the car.

"Goodnight Maxie."

"Goodnight Fangie."


	4. Need For Speed

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

I like to think that I'm cool (the epitome), hard, and not someone you'll ever think to mess with. But when that devastatingly sumptuous aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted into my room, I whimpered.

Bounding down the stairs, I slide into the kitchen, only to smack right into the counter. _Ouch._

"That's got to hurt," Ella mumbles through a cookie.

Her and mom are standing next to the cooker, a tray of cookies in hand.

"Hold up," I say, pointing an accusing finger at Ella, "I always dibs first cookie."

She shrugs. "You weren't exactly here to claim it. And anyway, we baked them, so we should get first grabs."

I shake my head. She just doesn't get it. "You're not worthy of the first cookie. You fail to savour the clear vanilla notes, succumb to the cookie crumble that will leave your mouth wanting more. And the chocolate chips…" I close my eyes, remembering, "They melt in the mouth and are just magical in all their chocolate-y goodness. You can't appreciate them like I can."

Ella fixes me with a worried look. "You need help."

"Here Max." My mom pushes the tray over to me, only to retract it when I lunge forward. "Just one. You'll spoil your dinner." _Seriously?_

I grab one anyway, planning to snatch some more when she's not looking. I'm just sneaky like that.

_Mmmm…yummy._

"So, how is College?" My mom asks.

I give her a bit of a lopsided smile, biting another chunk out of my cookie. "Ok. I really like my Creative Writing class, and English will get better when we move on to our next book. Preferably not some sappy romance."

Ella rolls her eyes, going to grab a _second_ cookie, when mom slaps her hand away.

"But Fang's in my class," I continue, slumping forward, resting my chin on my knuckles.

My mom gives me a pointed look. "Maxine Moira Martinez," Mom begins, (oooo, if a parent uses your full name, it's never good), "you two _will_ behave. You're not in high school anymore, so no pranks, no disrupting class with heated arguments that result in you issuing death threats or bodily harm in some way."

Well, when she put it like that...

She continues: "You two seemed to get on somewhat yesterday."

I scoff. "Because _you_ were there. It was all an act: he's evil. He dissed my ducks!"

"You are 18, Max," Ella reminds me, "aren't you a little old?"

I gasp. "You're never too old for ducks."

* * *

My alarm begins that irritating cycle of _bleep-bleep-bleep_, rudely awakening me from a blissful dream of devouring a plate of chocolate chip cookies with my idol, Stephen King. My mom walks in, snapping open the curtains. I hiss, futilely trying to blot out the sun with my hands like a vampire. "It burns," I whine, "five more minutes."

My mom's looking around my room, tutting as she surveys the piles of books stacked next to a full bookcase. A laptop sits at a desk and a printer, pages of work scattered here, there, everywhere. My floor can barely be discerned through the sporadic piles of clothes, which are all _clean_, might I add.

"You need to clean up in here," my mom says, "it's looking a mess."

"An organised mess," I protest, because I like my room. I'd decorated it myself, too: three walls are painted a cream colour, while the other is plastered in striped green wallpaper. My sheets are a similar shade of green, as are my curtains and lamps.

"Come on," my mom encourages, "I have a surprise for you."

I'm about to voice my opinions on surprises when Mom says, as if reading my mind, "You'll like this surprise."

I drag myself out of bed, rubbing sleep from out of my eyes as I dozily descend the stairs.

"I know it's a long journey to school," my mom begins, "what with having to catch a train, then another two buses, and they're not that frequent."

It's only too true. We live in a small town where the bus to the next town comes only every two hours. If you miss that or it doesn't come, you're in for a _long_ wait.

"So," she continues, "I'm going to give you my car. I've brought a new one for myself, so…"

I grab my mom in a tight hug, repeating "thank you" a dozen times before giving her one last squeeze and relinquishing her to look out the window. My mom laughs.

"Just make sure you fill her up. It's your responsibility now, Max. Look after it."

"Oh, I will," I promise, and, sure enough, outside, there are two cars: my mom's, now my, four-year-old car; and the brand new one, a Mini.

Ella appears beside me. "Are you gawking at it? It's just a car, y'know?"

I give her a look, shaking my head at her lack of understanding. "It's independence."

* * *

Thanks to my new mode of speedy transport, I arrive at College early, and decide to take refuge in the Library: the apotheosis of knowledge.

Whenever I enter the Library, I can't help but marvel at its sheer size. Hundreds of books are stacked in great bookshelves, some so large they require ladders to reach their greater heights. A few studious students are littered across the room, hidden behind books and texts, correcting essays and researching on computers. It's pin-drop quiet.

Rummaging in my bag, I pull out Ambiguity, deciding I might as well get ahead of the class. This desire stems from two disparate thoughts: 1) the sooner I finish it, the sooner I can put it to rest, and 2) surprisingly, I'm beginning to enjoy it. I'm getting to like the main protagonist, Samantha. She's tough and witty and somewhat stubborn. Her family can't understand why she's so adamant about pursuing higher education: going to College and taking up that degree she's always wanted. Her mom thought bar work should be enough, and she's just getting too big for her boots by pursuing this degree nonsense. College costs money, as well: money they just don't have. David, the sleaze ball who had cropped up in the first chapter, is making more and more frequent visits. I don't like him. At all. He's always making sexist-pig-like remarks, and seems intent on antagonising or dragging Samantha into unwanted conversations.

_An excerpt from Chapter 4 of Ambiguity_

"_Mice and Men?"_

_Samantha jumps at the unexpected voice beside her ear. She knows who it is, but refuses to acknowledge him in any way. Why should she have to deal with _him_ when she's on her break?_

"_It's one of my favourite books," David says. She remains quiet. Just because he has good taste in literature, does not mean she's going to provide any of her own thoughts on it. Even though, it is also one of her favourite novels._

"_You're quite far into it," he continues, unperturbed. "What do you think of it so far?"_

_Silence. He knows she's stubborn, but her rigid posture suggests to him that she's just about to crack and most likely issue some witty retort that he'll reciprocate with his own. It's a routine: a repetitive repartee that he's been pursuing for about three weeks now._

"_I think," she pauses, turning her page, "I want you to go away. I have five minutes left of my break and I want to have it in peace."_

_David pulls up a stool beside her. "I can wait."_


	5. Quarrels and Interruptions

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

"So class," Mr. Smith begins, "what do we think of Ambiguity?" He's leaning against his desk, munching on an apple that the Red Headed Wonder has presented him with today. _Kiss up._

"I think," begins the previously mentioned redhead, "that it's a pretty great novel. But I think it's obvious Samantha is going to end up with David."

_What? She_ despises_ him. She _loathes_ him. He's an ass. She'll never settle for someone like him._

"I disagree," I protest. "It's '_pretty obvious_'," I say, quoting her exact phrase, "that she _hates_ David. He's a sexist-pig, he's intent on winding her up whenever possible, and she's got work and College to think about. She's planned her life, he'd only disrupt it."

Mr. Smith nods, smiling, happy at the debate. We've been mostly silent this past week, all still shy and a little intimidated in a new place to voice too many thoughts and opinions. But a week has passed and the characters of the students are beginning to emerge.

"Good points," he says, "anyone else want to voice their opinions?"

"I think Max is being too hard on David," Fang states. _What?_

Everyone turns round sharply, surprised that he's spoken. He hasn't uttered any words at all in class until now. But even so, surely he's spoken to his Fangirls?

"How exactly am I…"

My question is interrupted by a high-pitched squeak, issued by a blond seated not far from Fang: "You speak? I thought you were mute."

I can't help but snicker. I know Fang can be quite quiet, preferring physical gestures in juxtaposition to speaking. But he's obviously gone out of his way to ignore them completely. If only he could apply those same rules to me.

"Not everything is black and white," Fang continues, "saying she hates him is too strong. He annoys her, which is his intention at times because he enjoys getting a reaction from her. She banters with him also, sometimes initiating the repartee. For example," he flips through the pages in the book until he finds his desired page and reads:

"_Why do you drink here?" Samantha asks, listlessly wiping over the bar. She hadn't meant to voice the question, but it's been playing on her mind since they first met. He's too well dressed, too upper class to be slumming it with them. He speaks well with proper diction, while they spoke with colloquialisms that constitute for most of their speech. He's an enigma._

"_I already told you," David says, smiling cheekily, "_you_ are here."_

_She rolls her eyes. "As wonderful as I am, you were coming here before I took this job. Shouldn't you be somewhere that serves Champaign and whatnot?"_

_He raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think I like Champaign? I'm more of a beer guy."_

"_You're wearing a designer suite," she gestures to his immaculate attire, "while that guy," she points over to a man in one of the far booths, "isn't even wearing a shirt." The man isn't a pretty sight, and the warm temperatures are not so uncomfortable that it renders stripping as necessary._

"_You'd rather me _not_ wear a shirt?" His hands go to his top buttons._

"_No!" She can feel her face beginning to heat up, embarrassed._

_He's grinning from ear to ear and she's never felt so strong a desire to wipe that sorry smirk off his face with a quick slap or punch._

"_Did I ever tell you I workout?"_

"_No," she says, "but you coming in here drinking will surely ruin that figure you've worked so hard to achieve. You'll get a beer belly. Maybe you should avoid pubs all together from now on."_

_Samantha can't suppress the grin that stretches onto her lips. Even though she wouldn't ever vocally admit it, she enjoys their little banter, their insults and remarks quick, firing back and forth. It's almost a mental workout._

"That just highlights how infuriating David can be," I protest. "Why can't he ever give her a straight answer?"

Fang turns round sharply, most probably to disagree with me again, when Mr. Smith interjects, '"Excellent points.'"

My archenemy is still looking at me, so I glare. He doesn't even flinch! Instead, that awful you're-so-funny smirk finds its way onto his lips. Mom said no acts of violence, or even a little threat here or there, right? _Damn._

"If we go back to this idea of 'not everything is black and white'," Mr. smith continues, quoting Fang's previous statement, "we must return to the title of the book, Ambiguity. It has been deliberately called that for a reason."

"What does ambiguity mean?" The blond asks.

_Oh dear._

* * *

I'm not meeting up with Sam and the others until later, so once again, I choose the Library as my refuge. And because I've been working so hard recently (pat on the back), I'm going to treat myself with a book of my own choosing. Basically, no romance crap. But what to pick?

I weave my way between the aisles, my finger tracing the spines of each hardback and each paperback. When I come across George Orwell's 1984, I know I've found my book. But as soon as I remove it, instead of finding what should have been an empty space where the book had been, I find a head (it's attached to a body unfortunately, 'cause I wouldn't mind if this person _had_ been decapitated).

I let out a small cry and drop the book, all eyes in the room suddenly locking on me.

Fang's face appears on the other side of the bookcase, smirking away. _Why does he keep popping up like this?_

I retrieve the book I'd dropped and frown at him, giving him my famous death glare. He just grins even wider. _Jerk._

I'm looking at another section of books, purposefully ignoring him, when I hear…

"Boo!"

My hand flies to my fast beating heart as I stifle a small scream. I turn round sharply, craning my head upwards, only to see Fang…smiling? It's such a rarity, that I'm suddenly speechless, frozen in place, my stomach giving a small flip in response.

There's barely an inch between us. We're so close I can smell his cologne; so close I can make out the gold glints in his obsidian eyes; and we're so close that if I were to stand on my tiptoes, I'd be able to brush my lips against his.

I have the sudden urge to lean closer, and I think I do. He makes no inclination of moving either, and if anything, closes the gap between us even more.

The smile's vanished from his face as he looks at me intensely, his eyes glinting with something, but what, I can't be sure.

He angles his head down lower, his eyes fluttering shut, and I'm certain he's about to kiss me. I don't pull away: my brain had shorted-out when his hand came to brush my overlong fringe from out of my eyes, only to settle on my cheek.

"Hey!" In unison we move our heads to where the elderly Librarian stands at the end of the aisle, hands on hips, her expression one of disapproval. "This is a Library, not some teen party where you can make out." _What?_

I jerk back as if I've been shocked, almost colliding with the other bookcase.

"No! Not with _him_. He just surprised me from behind," I protest. I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

I look to Fang to back me up, but he refuses to catch my eye.

"I don't care," she retorts, pushing a pair of spectacles further up her nose, "just don't do it in here." She struts off and I'm left with Fang, the air suddenly thick with tension.

He still refuses to look at me, instead choosing to pick up 1984 – _my_ book, the one I would have been reading now if he hadn't reared that ugly face of his. Ok, maybe ugly is a little strong… "I think I'll read this one," he says.

"You read?" I ask, feigning mock astonishment, trying to re-establish our _normal_ relationship of bicker, quarrel, antagonise.

"Yes Maxie, I do. Quite well actually. It's a must-have skill if you're to become Valedictorian."

I roll my eyes. Fang is bright: _really_ bright. The disparity from Number 1 in our class to Number 2 at high school had been quite substantial. He could have done _anything_: he was _good_ at everything; sport, math, history, etc. He was Mr Popular, Mr 4.0, Mr Good looking, Mr… forget that last one. So what is he doing here?

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He raises a questioning eyebrow, his emotionless eyes finally locking with mine. "I know your intelligence does not quite compare to mine, but surely you passed Biology."

I narrow my eyes and speak slowly. "You know what I mean. Why are you here at _this _College?"

"Because I seek higher education? I love to learn? The economic climate dictates that employers will only really employ those with degrees?"

I fold my arms, annoyed that he still hasn't answered my question. He knows what I'm asking as well; he's just choosing not to supply an answer.

"You could have gone to Harvard or Yale, or wherever," I say. "In fact, I'd heard you _had_ been accepted to those places. So why here?" The question had surfaced in my mind before, but until now, I'd just never posed it to him.

That silly smirk vanishes from his face, only to be replaced by the mask of reticence he wore so frequently. The playful twinkle in his eye has been extinguished, also. He bites his lip.

"My dad's just left," he says, "my family needs me. By going here, I can still live at home. I don't have to move."

I don't know what to say.

"And then," he continues, a small smile flitting onto his lips, "I wouldn't be here with you. And who would wind you up as adequately as I do?"

I roll my eyes. "How would I have gone on?" I say, infusing my voice with as much sarcasm as possible.

"Exactly."


	6. Knowing Looks and More Cookies

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

"Hey," I call, slinging my bag into a corner.

I'm met by an enthusiastic "Yo" from Phil, an even bubblier "Hey" from JJ, only to receive a sullen "Hi Max" from both Sam and Dylan. _What's up with them today?_

I raise a questioning eyebrow at JJ, who directs me over to a corner and whispers, "we walked past the Library earlier, and saw you with the hottest guy _ever_. Is he your boyfriend?"

"No!" My face flushes, embarrassed, my voice having inadvertently passed the inconspicuous level, grabbing the attention of the guys.

"That's what Sam thought, but you guys looked mighty close." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Are you sure?"

I cover my face with my hand, debating how much to divulge. Nothing had gone on, but _something_ could have – would have, had the Librarian not made a sudden appearance. Otherwise, I'm not sure what would have happened. Would I have realised what the hell I was doing before…

"I hate him, honest, we don't get on. He just surprised me from behind," I explain.

She nods her head, seeming to accept it, but there's a look on her face that tells me she's simply humouring me.

"Well, in that case, can you introduce me?"

"No!" The guys' eyes latch back onto me again, curious. I hold up a finger – _just a second._

JJ's lips are stretched into an annoyingly knowing smile, her arms folded as if to say _yeah right._ "I won't say anything to Sam and Dylan," she says. "They were both ready to charge in when they saw you together. Phil and I were preparing to restrain them, especially when we saw your frown turn upside down and…" She cuts off, implying that they saw the almost-kiss.

Mortification seems too slight a word for what I feel at the moment. Perhaps perpetual humiliation infused with disgust and confusion and…_what the hell had I been thinking? What the hell had_ he _been thinking?_

"Not what it looked like," I said, then, "why were Sam and Dylan about to charge in?"

JJ fixes me with a look, as if to say _you serious?_

I wait.

"You really don't know? Open your eyes Max, they're totally…'

"You guys coming," Phil yells, interrupting JJ in mid flow, "I'm ready to rock."

We roll our eyes as he begins spinning his cello around, making the rock gesture on his hand, banging his head up and down to nonexistent music.

"Yeah, we're coming."

_What had she been about to say?_

* * *

"I'm home," I yell, thankful to be back: it had been a long day. I hadn't seen Fang since the Library incident, for which I was grateful, and as practice had progressed, Sam and Dylan had perked up, for which I was also grateful.

"Max!" A short 12-year-old girl suddenly charges towards me, her dark wiry hair tickling my chin as she squishes me into a hug.

"I haven't seen you in, like, forever! How's College? Meet any cute guys? Do you miss high school?"

Wow. I'd forgotten how much of a motor mouth Nudge, my sister's best friend, could be.

When she finally relinquishes her hold on me, she looks at me expectantly. What had she just said? The words had seemed merge into one looong, without-pause-for-breath sentence.

"Are you enjoying your course?" she asks.

I nod as I kick off my converse. "It's good. My Creative Writing class is great, and my teacher isn't bad either. A tough task-setter, but it will all pay off."

She nods enthusiastically, practically bouncing up and down. _Had someone given her coffee?_

"Did she tell you Fang's in all of her classes as well?" Ella asks, walking into the room, leaning against the doorway.

Nudge's eyes light up, her mouth taking on a wide O. "The hot one?"

I roll my eyes and sigh. "He's not _that_ good looking."

Ella points a finger at me, exclaiming, "but you think he's good looking!" In unison, Nudge protests, "He's gorgeous! If I were just a few years older…"

I shake my head, disappointed at the vain remark. "Personality is more important, irrelevant of how attractive someone is. He's an ass, simple as."

Nudge and Ella turn to each other grinning, wearing that look of knowing I'd glimpsed earlier on JJ's face.

I demand: "What's with the look?"

Ella feigns indifference, her face a faux show of innocence. _Innocent my ass._

"What look?" Nudge says, having takes the hint from Ella's whole what-are-you-on-about charade.

I fix them with a hard stare: _you know what_, and wait.

They're saved, however, when my mom enters the hall, giving the troublesome duo a distraction to leave.

"Hey Max, college good?"

Before I can even issue a reply, she asks, "I need your help." _Oh no._

"I'm helping to organise an adoption day at the dog shelter, to try and see whether we can't find some of them a home. We're kind of stuck for volunteers…"

She leaves the question hanging in the air. _Damn. _I'm not particularly good with animals, or take much interest in them. That's more of Mom and Ella's department: they just love 'em, Ella even wanting to follow in Mom's footsteps and become a vet.

"Um, what about Ella? Wouldn't she be better suited to this kind of thing?" I'm stalling, I know, but trying to persuade people to buy a rangy mutt instead of sitting down with a good book? No competition.

"She's already helping," Mom explains, "I wouldn't be asking if we really weren't stuck because I know you're not much of an animal lover."

I sigh. "When is it?"

She smiles, knowing she's hooked me in: hook line and sinker. "Next Saturday. Thanks Max," she says, squeezing my shoulder before walking back into the kitchen.

_Magnanimous Max, that's me._

* * *

It's Monday morning and my second week at College. I feel two potent emotions as I walk into the College: dread and anxiety, the latter causing my stomach to feel as if a hundred butterflies are restlessly flapping around in there. _Get a grip, Max._

The almost-kiss had flashed throughout my mind a dozen times over the weekend, and for the life of me, cannot ascertain as to why I'd leaned forward, why I'd felt some compulsion to do so, and why Fang had also. Had he been leading me on? Was it some joke that I'd spectacularly fallen for?

As I'm rounding the corner I spot him, talking in hushed tones on the phone. I flatten myself against the wall, hiding just behind the corner so he can't see me, but still discern what he's saying.

"Yeah, ok." He pauses and says, "Don't worry sweetie, I'll see you soon."

My heart sinks when he says "sweetie". I hadn't realised he currently had a girlfriend, because although Fang had been Mr. Popular at school, he'd been very selective about his girlfriends, having dated only two that I can remember. That's his one redeeming quality, I suppose: he didn't flit from girl to girl like most of the jocks at school, even though he could have had anyone: all had swooned over him, even now. All except me, of course.

He hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket, sighing, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks tired.

I have to get to class, irrelevant of Fang or no Fang, so I round the corner as if I'd heard nothing at all.

When he sees my approach he drops his hand from his face, no emotions discernible save from his eyes, which appear to widen slightly, as if he's…relieved?

"Max, I need a favour."

"Doesn't everyone right now," I mumble.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't pursue my comment. "Can you give my essay in for me?"

"Why can't you? We're supposed to have class now."

He rifles through his bag for the work, shoving it into my reluctant hands. "Something's come up."

* * *

I inform Mr. Smith that Fang's unwell and that he's sorry he can't attend – _how's that for thinking on your feet – _and that he's given me his essay to hand in. And so, because I obviously have some contact with Fang, I will of course be able to hand him a novel we'll now be studying for Creative Writing (Ambiguity is still a must-read for class, only it will be studied in English) so that he won't fall behind because Mr. Smith wants to have an in depth discussion on the first chapter tomorrow, for which I assured him Fang would be attending. That's why, right now, I'm standing outside Fang's front door.

Although he lives a few streets from me, the houses where I live appear seemingly identical. It's only the array of colours used to paint their doors that distinguish any difference, the state of gardens another dissimilar trait. Fang's lawn is overgrown, the flowerbeds sprouting weeds, the plants wilting. I guess they haven't had time recently, what with everything going on, to render gardening as much of a priority.

I knock on the door, that previous feeling of nervousness and anxiety surfacing like before.

When nobody answers I'm hopeful they're out and I won't have to deal with him. But after a second knock, the door opens, Fang standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised and his eyes widening slightly. _Surprise!_

"Max," he says, an almost indiscernible upturn of his lips.

I stick the book out towards him and say, "I told Mr. Smith you were ill, since you didn't actually tell me why you couldn't make it. He wanted me to give you this. Chapter 1 for tomorrow if you'll be gracing us with you presence."

Fang's grin only stretches further across his face as he casually leans against the doorframe, his overlong fringe flopping into his eyes.

"Max?" A small voice comes from further inside the house: Angel's. "Is that you?"

Gazzy makes an appearance then, squeezing in front of Fang. "Aren't you going to invite Max in?" he asks.

I'm about to protest, but he grabs my hand and Fang moves to the side, allowing me entrance.

"We made cookies yesterday, like when we were at yours. Do you want one?" Gazzy asks.

I smile and say, "Sure, that'd be great."

He pulls me into the living room where Angel is lying on the settee, snuggled up in a blanket, a bucket beside her head.

"Hey Ange, what's wrong?" I crouch by the side of the settee and move her hair from off her sweaty brow.

"I've been sick all day and Fang had to fetch me from school this morning," she explains.

"Oh dear." It clicks then: he was referring to Angel when he'd said "sweetie" on the phone. I feel so stupid because there was no reason for me to feel so miffed at him for having, what I'd supposed at the time, a girlfriend. He may have one right now for all I know and why would it matter anyway? I don't care, I don't like Fang like that. In fact, I don't like him at all, full stop – friend or whatever. He's my archenemy, and that's that.

"Fang says it's just a 24-hour bug thing and I'll feel loads better tomorrow."

I smile. "That's good, it's not nice feeling bad."

"Max?" Gazzy calls from inside the kitchen.

Fang's leaning against the door as he points to the kitchen.

I brush past him lightly – _why can't he just move? – _and blush. _Stupid blushing._

There's a pile of plates stacked into the sink, a broom and brush lined against the wall. Papers and books litter a dining table situated to the side of the counter, an empty fruit bowl placed in its centre. This is obviously where Fang had been studying before I'd come.

"Here you go, Max," Gazzy says, pushing a plate towards me from behind the counter. I grab a cookie and munch on it, sticking up my thumb to show how good it is and he smiles.

I don't realise there's someone else in the room until I hear the short sharp _whack _of a stick against the wall. The stick is white and is clasped in the hand of a tall, pale boy. His hair is still the same strawberry blond as I remember, his face splattered with tiny freckles. But his eyes…they're no longer the piercing midnight blue they'd once been. He wears no glasses now and his eyes are a washed out blue. He's not looking at me when I say, "Iggy?" I know then that he can't see me: he's blind. _What had happened?_

I feel a pang of sorrow and I'm struck with not knowing what to say or what to do.

"Max," he finally says, his right hand outstretched, searching for the counter. When he finds it, he lays his arm across and smiles. "Long time no see," he pauses, "or hear."

I nod, suddenly remembering that he won't be able to see it. "Yeah, it has. How've you been?"

He shrugs. "Ok, I suppose. How much has Nick told you about what's been going on?"

"I know about your dad leaving, and I'm sorry about that," I reply truthfully.

He nods. "So you didn't know about this?" He waves a hand across his unresponsive eyes, indicating his loss of sight.

"No," I say quietly.

"I suppose this is kind of a surprise then," Iggy continues. "It's called Retintis Pigmentosa. I used to have problems seeing at night or in poorly lit areas when I was little, the problem gradually getting worse until… Well, let's just say it got diagnosed a little too late."

I can't even comprehend how lost and helpless he must feel. "I'm so sorry, Iggy."

He waves it off and says, "Not your fault," and grins. "There are some positive points, I suppose. The girls are more than happy to help me get to class, leading me by the arm. They're going to issue me with my own personal reader soon, who'll help me with me work and stuff. I'm hoping it'll be a girl."

I roll my eyes at his sexist-pig like comments – he can be just like Fang sometimes – but happy he's trying to joke about it, and not smolder in self-pity, which I greatly admired him for.

Fang walks into the room then, heading for the sink and grabbing a cloth, rinsing it in water. He walks back out and, thanking Gazzy and Iggy for the cookie, follow him. When I walk in he's crouching beside the settee, brushing the hair off a sleeping Angel's forehead. He places the wet cloth across her brow and pulls the blankets up closer to her chin. It feels so alien seeing Fang so nice and caring, looking after his younger siblings like this.

"Did I miss a lot in class?" he asks, coming up from his hunched position beside Angel.

"Um, we just went over Ambiguity some more in English. Basically, just recapping the last chapter we were supposed to have read at home, if you did it."

"I did," he interjects, "I'm a good boy, I do my homework."

I roll my eyes. "Want me to give you a pat on the head and a lolly?"

"I'll take the latter, I have quite a sweet tooth."

I ignore him and continue, "Mr. Smith gave us some tips and examples on writing descriptions for our prose assignment. We looked at the anthology on pages, um, 12, 15 and 18. If you do that, you're fine."

"I'm more than fine, Maxie. I'm incredibly good looking."

I give a short laugh. "Just keep telling yourself that, Fangie."

I head towards the door, fumbling with the stiff lock when I reach it. Fang leans over, his arm brushing against mine. I know I'm blushing, and try to hide my face to avoid any teasing or sexist comments from him. He snaps back the latch with ease, and I can just imagine that cocky smirk of his as he hears my huff.

The door's now open and I step outside, saying, "Tell Angel I hope she feels better soon, and say bye to Iggy and Gazzy for me."

"Will do, and thanks Max," he says, closing the door softly behind him.


	7. Dogs and Bickering

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Responding to a review, Retintis Pigmentosa is a real genetic eye condition that can cause blindness.**

It's now Saturday, the week having flown by in a torrent of essays, poetry writing, and assigned reading. Fang and I haven't spoken since Monday, save through physical gestures (me flipping him the bird) when I'd noticed he was _still_ using _my_ pen, the one that had rolled under his desk and he'd picked up on our first day here. It's just plain rude that he hasn't yet returned it to me.

"Max? Can you fill up these bowls?" I sigh as I pick up the dog bowls, filling them up by the sink. _Why had I agreed to help at the dog shelter again? _I should have been at home, immersing myself in the vicarious experiences created by accomplished writers, i.e. a Dean Koontz book that's just waiting to be read. Instead, I'm laying down newspapers and passing round treats, trying to goad people into taking home a dog. I will admit though, some of them are pretty damn cute: what with those big dark eyes, floppy ears and wagging tail. Cue the awwwws.

I place the bowls down, only to be met by a small, dark pug dog. He cocks his head to the side and I smile – _how sweet_ – only to scowl and curse when he cocks up his leg, peeing up the side of my leg. _Eeeew,_ _how gross!_

I jerk back, grabbing the bottom of my sodden jeans, my nose wrinkled in disgust. I give the dog my best death glare and say, "No more treats for you. I'm watching you pooch. Nobody messes with Max."

"But it's so much fun."

I know that voice and I cringe. He's like some demonic boomerang (strange simile, I know) that keeps making these unexpected and unwanted appearances.

I turn round, only to find Fang wearing that sardonic smirk of his, with Angel and Gazzy on either side of him.

"Max!" Angel comes running towards me, flailing and hesitant once she sees my wet trouser leg.

Gazzy erupts into fits of laughter, crying, "A dog peed on Max, a dog peed up her leg." I give him a mock scowl, surprised to find Fang chuckling away also. It's so rare to hear his laugh – it's a nice laugh. It's just unfortunate that it's normally directed at my expense.

"Y'know," Fang says, "that means the dog likes you. It's puppy love." Both him and Gazzy succumb to bouts of laughter once again. _Ha, ha._

"Nick's going to get me a dog, Max," Angel gushes. Her face has taken on a broad smile, her eyes lighting up. She looks immensely better from the last time I'd seen her: she now has colour in her cheeks and looks to have bundles of energy, hyped up by the prospect of a new companion.

"Great," I say.

"It's for my 7th birthday, which is in six weeks. Nick says it will be an early present and I have to look after it loads."

I smile. "That's nice of him."

Gazzy gives a small chuckle. "She's been asking for months and months. She used bambi eyes in the end, and Nick can never resist them."

I raise my eyebrows, a grin stretching its way onto my lips as I look over at Fang, noting the barely discernible reddening of his cheeks. My grin stretches even wider.

"There are some more dogs over there, if you haven't taken a look already," I say to Gazzy and Angel. She grabs his hand, practically dragging him over to a couple of cute King Charles' that are bounding after each other, issuing short, high-pitched yaps every now and then.

I stand next to Fang and elbow him. "She has you wrapped around her little finger. Do you have no will power?"

He blanches at me and says, "Those bambi eyes are lethal, no one can resist them."

I shake my head. "Shameful."

He points to a sign on the far door, and says, "The sign says not to let the dogs out of their cages." He gives me a pointed look and points at me, noting that we are _outside_ the cages, and smirks.

"Don't worry," I say, "we've made an exception for you."

"Are you implying I'm a dog?"

I pause, pretending to think about it, tapping a sole finger against my chin. "I was, but now, I think it would be an insult to dogs."

"Wow," Ella says, walking towards us with a bag of dog food, "I see no love is lost between you two."

Fang slings an army around my shoulders, and I shrug it off, hoping a blush hasn't crept its way onto my cheeks. "It's true," he says, "we're in love."

"Yeah right," I sneer, "I can barely stand you. So love? Out of the question."

He shrugs. "They say hate is the closest to love. And anyway, what's not to love? I am devastatingly…"

"Unattractive," I supply.

He shakes his head, and continues, "_handsome_, intelligent, witty, strong…"

I latch onto his last adjective and interject, "You _are _strong, aren't you?"

He falters, surprised at my admission. _Sucker._

"I mean, just look at those muscles," I continue. Ok, I will admit it, Fang is quite well-built, not overly so, but just nice enough so that you can make out a six-pack beneath his tight tee-shirt.

I think I'm staring and when my eyes lock back with his, he's wearing that silly smirk of his, eyes sparkling with humour. _I'd been caught._

Ella giggles, and I have the urge to whack both of them. Hard.

"So," I say, taking Ella's heavy bag off her, shoving it into Fang's arms, hoping my face isn't scarlet. "Why don't you help us out."

"Pleasure," he mumbles, carrying the bag with ease. Damn. That was heavy; I thought he would have at least staggered back or somethin', especially when I'd practically _shoved_ it at him. "Where to?"

Ella replies: "If you just go around and fill up any empty bowls, that would be great."

"Could you keep an eye on Angel and Gazzy?" he asks.

"Yeah, don't worry."

When Fang's out of sight, Ella turns to me, smiling brightly, her arms crossed over her chest.

"What?" I snap.

"You were practically checking him out," she whispers.

I think my eyes just popped out of their sockets. "No! Course not."

Her voice takes on a higher octave, in what I think, is supposed to be an imitation of me, "Oh Fang, you're _sooo_ strong."

"I did_ not_ say it like that. My voice was _infused_ with sarcasm – it practically dripped off each word."

She shakes her head. "That doesn't explain why your eyes lingered over his body for a _long_ time."

I'm about to protest when she continues, "I don't blame you. He's hot, Max. Girls probably gawk at him all the time."

"They do," I say, my voice tinged with annoyance.

She scrutinises my face for a moment and says, "I know we bicker sometimes and stuff, but we're still sisters, and we really are quite close."

I nod my head, wandering where she's going with all this sentimental crap.

"If you and Fang are together, you can…"

I stop her there, and give a strained laugh. "Yeah, that would be the day. We rile each other up the wrong way all the time. I hate him, simple as."

She shrugs. "But you know, if there ever was…"

I hold up my hand, not wanting to listen to anymore of this Fang and I together drivel. I believe the idiom, when pigs fly, would be appropriate for a potential relationship between my archenemy and I.

She nods and points to my jean leg, the one soaked with dog pee. She fails to stifle a laugh, clutching her stomach as she succumbs to fits of laughter. It isn't that funny. "Why don't you clean up round back?" she suggests, barely keeping it together to utter the simple proposition.

I roll my eyes and head towards the office, but just before I'm about to open the door, I spot the Red Headed Wonder and a couple of girls from my English class. Ok, I swear I'm not purposefully eavesdropping, but when I hear mention of my name, I can't help but linger for just a little longer. They're just round the corner, so I flatten myself against the wall, straining to hear their voices over the yapping of the dogs.

"I just saw Nick talking to that girl in our class again," a girl says.

"Who?"

"The one who has a boys name: Max."

"Seriously?" I recognise this voice as the Red Headed Wonder (I think I'm going to abbreviate her name to RHW, it's a bit of a mouthful). "He only ever seems to talk to her. Whenever I try to engage him in any conversation, he either gives me a one word answer, or nods or shakes his head." _Ha!_

"They're not together are they?"

"God, I hope not," says RHW. "I don't know what he could ever see in her. She's not even pretty."

"Far from it," another agrees. "She dresses like a boy."

RWH continues: "She's always wearing baggy clothes, she never wears makeup, and her hair's always tied up in that messy ponytail. I bet she's never even had a boyfriend. Who'd want to go out with _that_?"

Ouch. My heart sinks and I'm surprised by the effect her harsh words have on me. She's right: I've never really had a boyfriend, unless you'd constitute one lousy date as having one. I look down at my clothes: I'm wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, my feet clad in an old pair of converse. I've never taken much notice of fashion, always preferring to wear something practical and comfy. I don't wear much jewellery, save a watch, and no makeup has touched my features since Ella forced me to wear some for my 18th birthday when we'd gone out to some expensive restaurant. I suddenly feel…I don't know what I feel, but I don't like it.

Instead of tucking my overlong fringe behind my ears like I usually do, I let it hang in front of my face, and go to get cleaned up, not wanting to hear anymore of their bitching.

* * *

"Max?"

I'm drying my jeans off with a couple of paper towels when Angel's head peeps from behind the door, a black Scottie in her small arms.

"This is my dog. Isn't he adorable?"

Gazzy follows behind, Fang lingering beside the door, a smile gracing his lips as he watches Angel gush about her dog.

"He is," I agree, stroking behind his ear. I'll admit, he is kinda cute. "What's his name?"

"Total," she says, "like from the Wizard of Oz. It's my favourite film."

I nod my head. "That's a great name. It's one of my favourite films as well."

Fang pokes his head out the door again, shuts it, and comes to stand by Angel and Gazzy.

I raise a quizzical eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

"No, not really."

Gazzy pipes in, "He's hiding from some girls."

"Not hiding," he denies, "just avoiding."

Angel scratches behind Total's ears and says, "Why are you avoiding them if you call them tarts? You like tarts, you always make sure we buy them every time we go shopping."

Fang's eyes widen slightly as I stifle a fit of laughter. He bites his lip, panicking, because how can he explain such a thing to a six going on seven year old?

"I think," I begin, "Fang may have meant that _they_ like jam tarts as well, and he's avoiding them, um, because…" I pause, not sure how to continue.

"Because they keep stealing my tarts and I don't like that," Fang finishes. Ok, it's pretty lame, but if it will satisfy Angel, then so be it.

She nods her head and sets Total on the floor, tickling his belly as he rolls over, kicking his leg out as she does so. Dogs are such funny things.

I mouth to Fang, _tart stealer?_

He shrugs and says, "You inspired me, what with you being a cookie stealer and all."

I blanche. "I would never steal someone's cookie. Ever. I'd never do be that cruel to anyone." I pause, and amend, "Except maybe you, of course."

"Oh, I believe that," he agrees. "Do you remember our first day of Kindergarten?"

"How could I forget? We had our first big fight that day, because _you_ stole _my _juice."

He shakes his head. "Yeah, because _you_ stole _my_ cookie first. I've never made a habit of stealing snacks without a sufficient reason."

I frown, trying to remember. Had I stolen his cookie? And why?

"It was the beginning of recess," he begins, "and I left my cookie on the steps while I was trying to tie my shoe lace. When I look up, my cookies gone and you have two in your hand. I run after you but you've already eaten them both, so I take your juice. It was only fair."

I can kind of picture it now - it's faint and hazy, but I can just about remember seeing a cookie on the steps and thinking about how lucky I was because I'd have two of them to eat. But even so…

"Why on earth would you ever leave a cookie on the steps? It was just waiting to be eaten. I can't be held responsible for your careless actions, Fang."

"It wasn't yours to take," he retorts. He's closer than he was before, his warm breath tickling my face. I stand my ground, narrowing my eyes.

I argue, "How was I supposed to know? It was left discarded on the steps, it wasn't…"

I'm cut off by Angel's timid voice. "Are you two arguing?"

"No Ange," Fang says, his features soft, "just having a healthy debate. I was just correcting Max on some important details she'd forgotten."

She nods and asks, "Why does Max keep calling you Fang?"

I explain: "It's just a nickname I gave him when we were little."

"Can I call you Fang?" Gazzy asks, removing his hand from where he'd been stroking Total from behind his ears. The dog tilts its head to the side, nudging his arms with its head, demanding attention. I can just imagine Total thinking, _What about me?_

"It sounds like a cool nickname," he continues, patting Total's head.

Fang shrugs, "If you want. It used to kind of annoy me, the nickname, but it's grown on me over the years."

"I could think of a few other things to call you," I say, innocently smiling as he glares at me.

"You mean handsome? Unbelievably attractive?"

I give a short bark of laughter. "What's unbelievable is that you think you _are _all of those things."

A grin flits across his face. "You can't keep denying your feelings for me Maxie, it's just not healthy."

I scoff. "What's not healthy is _me_ having to look at…"

A barking Total, and an Angel looking at us with concern stops me in mid-flow. "You guys are arguing a bit like Mom and Dad used to, only they used to yell a lot louder and daddy didn't smile like Fang does when you argue."

I suddenly feel bad for 'arguing' around the kids, too caught up in getting one over with Fang.

Fang crouches down to her level and gives a sad smile. "We're not arguing really, Ange. We're just winding each other up like Iggy and I do sometimes. We don't mean what we're saying, we're really just goofing around."

She wraps her scrawny arms around him and says, "Ok."

He looks at his watch and frowns. "We better get going guys."

Angel picks up Total, her face suddenly taking on a look of apprehension. "What about those girls who want to steal your jam tarts?"

"It's ok, Ange," I say, smiling. "You can all go out the back way, so you can avoid 'em."

She perks up and smiles. "Thanks Max."

Fang catches my eye, giving me an actual smile. My heart gives a tight squeeze.

* * *

As soon as Mom, Ella, and are newly adopted dog, Magnolia, are inside, I shut the front door and lean against it. I slide down, exhausted.

"I'm so tired," I groan.

Ella kicks my foot. "Wimp."

The dog comes panting over towards me, its long tongue hanging out. I scrunch up my nose. "Can we give dogs breath mints?" I ask seriously, waving a hand in front of my face, futilely trying to wave off the dire odour.

"No," Mom shouts from inside the kitchen.

I ask: "What about brushing its teeth?"

"Are you volunteering?"

I stand up and stretch, cringing when I hear my back click. Maybe Ella's right, I am getting old.

There's a mirror in the hall and I look at my reflection. My hair looks unruly, several strands having crept out of my ponytail, flopping in front of my eyes. My eyes are also slightly bloodshot from long nights absorbed in books and writing. My face is plain: no discerning features that would constitute for attractiveness, and my hair is brown, my eyes brown. I frown, unable to dislodge those bitchy remarks uttered from Red Headed Wonder and her clan of witches: _"She's not even pretty."_ My appearance has never bothered me before, but now, it does.

"Max?" Ella calls, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and hall. "Don't look in the mirror for too long, you'll break it."

I force out a short laugh and mock scowl at her. I must have looked upset or something, because she frowns and asks, "You ok? I was only joking, you know. You're really pretty."

I force a smile, trying not to divulge too much in self-pity. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm being honest, Max. You have really nice hair and eyes, and let's face it, you have a figure to die for."

I shake my head, certain she's just feeling guilty because of a comment that should have sparked a quick witted retort from me, and not turned me into a poor self-pitying sap. "I dress like a boy and I'm plain looking," I state.

She shakes her head and tuts, "You're not plain looking, as I've already said. But you could dress a little girlier. Let me dress you tomorrow, it'll be fun."

I raise an eyebrow. "For you or me?"

She rolls her eyes. "I think you'll be surprised what new clothes and a bit of makeup can do. I'll have to do something with your hair as well: maybe straighten it or something. When I'm finished with you, Fang won't be able to take his eyes off you."

I nod and smile, pausing mid-nod when I register what she's just said about Fang. _Why would he care?_


	8. New Looks and Jealous Fangirls

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

It's 5 o'clock in the morning and I'm wide-awake. For whatever reason, our lovely new dog, Magnolia, had felt compelled to issue a series of relentless barks half an hour ago. And so, because of this rude awakening, I am not a happy bunny.

Sleep has eluded me since, so I've settled for switching on my bedside lamp and picking up Ambiguity. I might as well get ahead of the class.

_An extract from Chapter 7 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha casts a glance at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She wipes her finger under her left eye, removing a smudge of mascara. She steps back and assesses her attire: a plain white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, her feet clad in low heels._

_She takes a deep breath, her nerves suddenly getting the better of her, inducing a wave of nausea. A lot would rest on their first impressions of her, dictating whether the College would offer her that place she so desperately wanted –_ needed_, because what would she do then? Work here, day in day out, always wondering what it would have been like to study English in such depth, immersing herself in works so cleverly crafted that she could do nothing but marvel at the talents of others: Shakespeare, Arthur Miller, and so many others, just waiting for her to read. She just needs the offer that will allow her to do so._

"_Right Samantha," she says to her mirror image, "you'll be fine, you'll ace this interview, and the College _will_ accept you." She glances at her watch for the umpteenth time, deciding she should probably make headway now. Grabbing the tote bag she'd filled with her work clothes, she exits the bathroom, colliding with someone._

"_Oh, sorry," she mumbles, reaching down to pick up the bag she'd dropped. She's too slow though, the person with whom she'd ploughed into reaching it first. She looks from the hand to the arm to the face and she cringes._

"_It's ok," David says, handing her the bag back, "no harm done." A grin stretches its way onto his face as she narrows her eyes at him._

"_Good," she says curtly, "do you normally linger outside the girls bathroom, or were you thinking of entering yourself?"_

_It's his turn to frown now, his eyes widening slightly, his lips curving upwards as he notices her clothing._

_A hand moves to his chin as he steps back, shamelessly eyeing her up and down. She rolls her eyes, considering just pushing past him because he's going to make her late._

"_Well," he begins, "you don't normally make this much of an effort for me. I like the sophisticated look, it suits you."_

_She cringes and folds her arms, giving him a hard look. "I've got an interview to get to and you're in my way. Shift it."_

_He doesn't move, instead barring her way with his arm. "I hope it's not for another job."_

_She sighs. "College placement and I can't be late."_

_He frowns, and asks, "How old are you?"_

_She's impatient and moves her bag irritably to her other shoulder. "Twenty one next week. Why?"_

_He shrugs and answers, "Most young people go when they leave high school."_

"_Yeah, well not all of us have rich daddies to pay for us. College is very expensive for people like me, I've had to save up myself."_

_He nods, a faint blush blossoming on his cheeks. He knows nothing about her or her family. He doesn't know about the hospital bills she's had to pay for when her father had been taken ill with Alzheimer's, or the cumulating expense her mother is logging up with her drink, a coping mechanism for the husband who no longer recognises his family._

_David breaks into her thoughts and says with certainty, "To study English."_

_She nods and raises a quizzical eyebrow, curious as to how he'd come to such a conclusion._

_He smiles. "You read whenever you can: on breaks, when you're supposed to be hard at work but you're insistent on finishing your last chapter and ignoring your good customers."_

_She gives a short laugh. She only ignored _him,_ or tried to, anyway. A book was a good excuse not to look at him, so she wouldn't have to feel nervous under his gaze or pretend to not notice his attempts to catch her eye, engaging her in conversation and gracing her with a dazzling smile._

_Samantha says: "When you say 'good', I assume you are referring to yourself."_

"_Of course," he agrees, smiling._

"_You come in here twice a week for about four hours, and in that time, you buy just three drinks. A _'good'_ customer will buy three times that amount, _and_ you're a lousy tipper."_

_Her blazon comment fails to perturb him and erase the smile from his face. Instead, the grin stretches, her heart giving a tight squeeze in response. _

"_What if I make it up to you then and take you out to dinner?"_

"Max?"

I reluctantly close the book and glance at the clock. It's half 6. I guess I'll find out Samantha's response later, although I can say with near certainty that she'll issue some witty retort, summarising her repulsion at such an offer.

"I'm up," I say, responding to Ella's voice, "you can come in."

"Can't turn the handle," she says, "you're going to have to open it for me, my hands are full." _Full? With what?_

I groan and reluctantly slip out from under my nice, comfy sheets. I dozily open the door, rubbing sleep from out of my eyes, cringing when I register what she's carrying: her makeup bag, straightners, a couple pair of skinny jeans, jackets and tops.

"What's all this?" I ask.

She pushes her way past me, dumping the stuff on my bed and turns to face me. "I'm giving you a makeover today," she says in a duh-like tone. "Remember?"

I glance at the clock again and remark, "You're never up this early."

She shrugs and gives a sardonic smirk. "We've got a lot of work to do," she says, looking me up and down, noting my untamed hair sticking up, this way and that. She rubs her hands together in anticipation, grinning evilly_. Oh no_. "Let's begin."

* * *

Two long hours of me cringing and wincing as Ella untangled my unruly hair and applying a fleeting brush of mascara (she nearly took my eye out with that thing) and eyeliner, she was done. She'd thrown (literally) several pieces of clothing at me, demanding I switch every now and then to 'establish the best combination'.

I stare in wonder and partial bewilderment at the girl in the mirror. It just doesn't look like me – it _can't_ be me, because for one thing she's wearing a dress, and the second thing she looks…nice, almost comparable to the attractive Red Headed Wonder. I move my arms up and down, this way and that, watching as the girl in the mirror copies my moves precisely. Perhaps she is me.

According to Ella, although the other clothes had looked 'really nice' on me, I would look 'lovely' in a summer dress. And although it's September (early September) it would not look unusual to wear one in these unusually high temperatures, which had been the basis of my poorly contrived argument. The dress is white and hugs my curves, flaring just past my hips. I suppose it's nice in a way, and plain, which is good. I don't do any of that flower and hearts stuff: the toleration line ends there, the dress barely in the acceptable category. A simple silver necklace adorns my neck, Ella having also issued me with a short black cardigan to wear and flats. Fortunately, we are the same size, 'cause my footwear consisted of converse, boots, and just more converse. My brown hair has been straightened, reaching just past my shoulders, the tapered sides framing my face. My features don't look quite so plain now, my eyes highlighted by the makeup, making them stand out as one of my most attractive qualities. I feel a lot better now, and am tempted to hug Ella for her efforts. But I have a reputation to uphold and cannot jeopardise it with such a mushy gesture, instead saying, "I look different. Like, not me."

Ella sniffs and replies, "I know, I made you look nice. You're not a minger anymore."

I turn to glare at her, stretching the smirk on her face even wider. She's such a wind-up merchant that she's verging on my level of skill in antagonising.

"Thanks," I commend, serious this time.

She nods. "You look really pretty." And then, because it's verging on just plain cheesy and that's just not us, she adds, "My skills are immense if I can transform that," she points to the family picture on my desk, where I'm squeezed in between Mom and Ella in my usual attire, "to that", and points to me now.

"Well," I begin, "it's just unfortunate the same can't be done for you." I point at her and continue, "and you're stuck like _that_."

She gasps, her mouth open in shock. Oh Ella, you have so much to learn in the art of witticisms. You should never challenge a master.

"Ella?" Mom shouts from the bottom of the stairs. Ella narrows her eyes at me, which I smirk at, before leaving to get ready for school.

I look in the mirror (I'm not vain, just surprised at the transformation) and smile. "Well," I say to my reflection, "you don't dress like a boy anymore."

* * *

I arrive half an hour early for class, deciding to go to the Library to spend the time finishing a creative writing piece that's due in next week.

The halls are empty, most still in class. As I open the door to the Library I'm met by a loud thump, and what I perceive to be the dropping of a hefty pile of books and a muttered, "damn". Great, I've injured someone via the door.

I timidly push the door open, only to see a dark mop of hair furiously pulling his books towards him, stacking them in a somewhat untidy pile. I lean down to help him.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there," I say.

His head snaps up and I cringe, realising who I've knocked down. I take it back, I'm not sorry. Fang needs a good whack to knock some sense into him.

"Never heard you say sor…" Fang's voice teeters off as he looks me up and down. His eyes widen ever so slightly, his mouth hanging imperceptibly open. I suddenly feel nervous, like a thousand butterflies are flapping around furiously in my stomach, trying to escape. The vague thought, _what if he doesn't like the look? _filters into my mind. Heat finds its way into my cheeks in regards to the question, _and_ the fact that Fang is _still_ staring.

We're close, me having moved nearer to push a couple more books towards him before I'd noted who it was. He suddenly seems much closer, the difference almost indistinct, only I can discern his cologne more readily now, his face a few inches from mine now. He extends his hand, moving a strand of hair that has crept its way in front of my face, and positions it behind my ear. I can clearly see the golden glints in his obsidian eyes, highlighted by the intense sunlight filtering through the window above us.

The door suddenly whams into me and I'm pushed forward, colliding with Fang. The student who'd entered mutters a quick "sorry" and walks off. I'm sprawled half over Fang, half on the spread of books and I'm certain my face must be a flaming red and that when he catches a glance, he's going to fire some witty remark. Only, when I timidly look to his face, his cheeks are also tinged red (Fang embarrassed? It cannot be). He doesn't move and neither do I. But then the door opens again, class having just finished, and he pulls himself upright, me following suite.

"What have you been eating?" he asks, "rocks?"

I roll my eyes. "Why? Is your head missing some?"

He cracks a grin, our normal means of communication established.

We don't speak for a moment, the lingering tension thick and heavy as we pick the books up from off the floor, preventing anyone from trampling on such great works of literature. I'm surprised at what he'd selected: Angela's Ashes (Ireland in the 1930s, depicting the impoverished life of a Catholic family), the evocative poems of Sylvia Plath and Wilfred Owen, and…Stephen King.

"You read Stephen King?" I ask, surprise sending my voice up a higher octave.

"No," he says, "I just brought this book by accident. Who's Stephen King?"

I roll my eyes at his sarcastic remark. "Just didn't realise you were a fan, that's all. Misery's a brilliant book. It's one of my favourites."

He raises an eyebrow. "Really? I've read it several times already. Anyone who can keep a reader at the edge of their seat like that _has_ to be a genius."

"Agreed," I say, "King owns the horror genre."

Fang pauses, placing the last of his book on the pile. "Dean Koontz?"

I nod appreciatively. "Good, his characters incomparable to King's. But, in regards to horror, I've never felt the compulsion with his to check under my bed and closet for some axe man."

He gives a short laugh and I smile. We exit the Library and descend the steps to the English department.

"I didn't think Maximum was scared of anything," he goads, as we walk into the room.

I narrow my eyes, the effect futile as his smirk grows even wider. Maximum is a nickname I'd insisted upon being called when we'd been at Elementary school, having deciding it sounded much tougher and cooler than Maxine. In the end I'd compromised on Max, Mom having remained adamant that Maxine was a lovely name and that I should keep it, particularly since I'd been named after my great grandmother. Only Fang still called me that.

I take my seat, slightly unnerved by all the dirty looks and glares I'm receiving from the girls. I issue my own dagger-like glares and most look away. They're all just miffed I entered with Fang, even though _nothing_ is going on between us.

The whisperings start then and one of the girls asks, "What happened to you? You look like a girl."

I'm about to retort, asking what happened to _her_, when Fang interjects. "Max _is_ a girl. If you can't see that, then maybe you need glasses. Perhaps then you'd stop _accidently_ bumping into me."

The girl gapes in shock, her face burning bright with embarrassment. I take my seat smiling, surprised and immensely overjoyed at Fang's comment. _Take that, Fangirl._


	9. Broken Bows and Broken Bones

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Thanks a lot for the encouraging reviews.**

I manage to escape English with only a few minor inconveniences: a death note from a Fangirl, the finger from a Fangirl, glares and envious looks from numerous Fangirls, notably the Red Headed Wonder. And because of that (since I'm just weird like that), I leave the room with a whopping, big grin on my face.

Sam is waiting for me outside, craning his neck over the looming crowd to spot me. I go to stand right beside him, waiting for him to notice my presence. But then deciding it would be cruel to allow him going on his fruitless search, I nudge him and wave a hand in front of his face, surprise clouding his features before his eyes widen infinitesimally. "Wow," he says, "you look beautiful." He pauses, a look of panic suddenly flitting across his face. "Not that you don't normally, but more so 'cause of the dress and makeup and hair." He runs a hand nervously through his hair. "Um, I'm gonna stop talking now," he mumbles, and points down the hall, suggesting we head off to the music centre.

"It's ok," I assure him, "I understand what you mean, and thanks."

He nods, stealing a furtive look at me every now and then as we descend the steps.

My ears are instantly met by the rich sounds of a cello reverberating across the room. Dylan sits in the corner of the room, his hand completing a complex series of notes on the viola: a deft performance that can only be obtained through laborious hours of playing. As soon as his fingers have initiated the last note with a final pluck of the string, I clap, surprised and partially moved at what he'd just done. I've never realised just how good he is, as the viola parts we have in our arsenal are simpler and less demanding than its other string counterparts.

Just like when Sam first acknowledged my presence, Dylan dithers for a moment, fumbling to place his bow and viola down. His eyebrows are drawn up in surprise and a small smile is stretching its way onto his lips as he comes over towards us.

"That was pretty amazing Dylan," I congratulate, hoping to draw his attention back to his performance. I'm beginning to see this dress-thing as a bad idea: nobody ever expected to see me in one since I vowed to desist from them until…_forever_.

He waves off the compliment, instead saying, "_You_ look pretty amazing." I'm not sure how to respond to that, having never been met by so many compliments before. "Thanks," I mumble. "Where's…"

I don't bother to voice my question because I hear the thump at the door, hear the "Yo guys", and know that the two other members of our little group have finally arrived. "Little help?"

I open the door, helping to manoeuvre the hefty case inside. Phil pants behind it, wiping his hand across his sweaty brow. He casts a swift glance over his shoulder, then turns to face me with a frantic look. "Hurry, we need to shut the door before she comes."

I raise a quizzical eyebrow, complying nonetheless. "What have you done?" I ask.

He stalls for a moment, shoving his weight against the now closed door. "Oh, you look nice," he commends, trying to divert the subject matter at hand.

I fold my arms and give him a hard look that speaks, _tell me now or I'll kick your butt into the middle of next week._

He gulps. "I may have upset JJ a little. Well, actually, maybe a lot." He pauses, putting an ear to the door and continues, "she'd just brought a new bow and she was excited to show me. I don't see how it's my fault really, _she_ was the one who put it in my hands."

Sam and Dylan come over to us now, a look of understanding dawning on their faces. I think I know where this is going, as well.

"I didn't mean to," Phil continues, "one minute it was in my hands, the next it was on the floor, the neck of the bow broken." He shudders. "I've never seen anyone that pissed off before. She started shouting and screaming, telling me I can buy her another bloody 1,000 dollar bow. I started running when she lunged for me." He looks at us pleadingly, "please don't let her hurt me. I'm too young to die by the hands of a sadistic violinist."

Sam shakes his head in disbelief and says, "Dude, you're so dead. You know she's a black belt in karate, right?"

Phil's eyes bulge and I'm sure, if this were a cartoon, they would have just popped out. "Thanks for that, man," Phil replies sarcastically, "you've made me feel loads better."

Dylan asks: "Can I have your cello after she kills you?"

"What would a viola player want with my cello? A viola uses a different key."

"I know," Dylan shrugs, "but I thought I could sell it on ebay or something."

Before Phil can protest there's a loud thump against the door and a screaming JJ. "Philip Matthews, open this door _now_!"

Phil struggles to hold the door back. Damn, JJ is strong.

"I'm really sorry," he pleads, "have mercy, JJ."

The banging stops. There's a moment of trepidation and apprehension before JJ shoves her entire weight against the door again, suddenly and unexpectedly, sending Phil forward.

The three of us place ourselves between them both, trying to futilely placate a rabid and manic JJ.

"I'm so sorry," Phil apologies again. "I'll buy you a new one. Don't hurt me."

JJ glowers, fiercely shaking her head. "You're so lucky I'm in a generous mood, because you'd be_ so_ dead by now."

I try and break the tension with, "Shall we get playing then?"

JJ nods tersely, her eyes still solely focused on Phil. I sit at the piano while the others begin taking their instruments out.

"If Phil's going to be buying me a new bow," JJ begins, "he's going to have to save up. Do we have any gigs or bookings planned?"

Sam brightens at this and proudly replies, "Actually, we do. Do you remember that dinner party we did last year, at Mulburry Hall? Well, they want us to play there again. That's next month. And then there's another dinner party two weeks after that, and then a wedding, and then I was thinking maybe we could try and promote orchestral instruments at a couple of schools. Sound good?"

"Really?" I ask, suddenly excited. I've never done anything like that before: paid for playing and doing something totally fun. What a way to earn a couple of bucks.

Sam nods, smiling at my genuine enthusiasm.

"Hey, Sam?" Phil calls.

Sam fails to hear Phil call, his eyes still remained solely focused on me. I feel heat enter my cheeks as I jerk my head to the side, indicating that he's wanted. "Phil called you," I explain, giving a small smile.

"Oh." Sam suddenly jolts back, aware of Phil and the others.

"Can you hold my cello for me while I tune it? My G is _way_ out," Phil says.

Sam reluctantly walks over and holds the neck of the cello with his left hand. The large expansive cello case lies across a table. Sam rests his other hand on the bottom half of the cello's case, supporting himself as he takes the full weight of the cello. Phil frowns, biting his lip as he turns the G's peg, plucking the note to establish how far he is from it being perfectly in tune. Later Phil will tell me that the string is old and perhaps he plucked the string a little too hard, because the next thing we know, the string snaps and Phil jerks back, Sam releasing his grip on the cello and falling back. The top half of the cello's case snaps shut, the hand that had been resting against the bottom half of the case clamped in between both parts. The case has closed on his hand. Sam lets out a shrill cry, swearing profanities as he lifts the top half of the case upwards, pulling out his red and already swelling hand. _Oh no._

* * *

The verdict isn't good. The doctor declares that Sam has fractured his hand and will not be able to play for at least another two months. We've been booked by several people and will have to cancel each and every one of them: Sam is our First Violinist, and inadvertently the glue that holds our little group together. He brings us in on time in different sections of the music, dictated bowing, and is the most experienced of us all. We're devastated. Sam is absolutely distraught: no playing for that length of time will set him back _big time_. Practice and persistence with an instrument is vital if you are to succeed in performance. So, as I said, we are _all _devastated.

"I'm so sorry, man," Phil says for the umpteenth time. He's certainly doing a lot of apologising today.

Sam waves the apology off once again, his mouth drawn down and his eyes sad. "It was an accident. You couldn't have known the string was gonna snap like that. Just bad luck."

"I'll handle everything," Phil continues, "explain to the people who've booked us what's happened."

Sam frowns. "Don't do that. You guys can still play, you just need someone to replace me."

"Yeah, right," JJ says sarcastically. "You're the best violinist at this College, I don't know anyone who plays even close to your ability. And there wouldn't be enough time to teach a newbie our pieces, either."

Sam shakes his head. "There has to be someone. We can hold auditions."

I'm about to protest then because it still wouldn't be the same playing without him. We need _him_.

"There will be someone who can take my place for now. We can't cancel on them, the money's way too good," Sam continues.

We all give him a hard look, implying _like we care._

He continues nonetheless. "Phil needs the money to buy you a new bow, JJ," Sam says, looking pointedly at her. She shrugs and Phil sighs. He then turns to Dylan and cajoles: "You need the money for that car you've been saving up for." I'm the last one he directs his convincing strategy on, and says, "You were really looking forward to performing, and seriously, wedding bookings pay really well. You'll need the money to fill that car up of yours."

He directs his attention to all of us then. "Plus the fact, I wouldn't want to cancel on some of these people. I can imagine the bride being a little like Godzilla if we were to cancel now."

I suppose he has us really: caught in the grasp of the persuasive hand he's dealt. It will only be for a short time, too, because in two months, we'll be able to perform together again, just in time for the Christmas performances.

But who will be our First Violinist?

* * *

_An extract from chapter 8 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha sighs in despair as she leans her elbows on the bar, her chin resting on her knuckles. It has been two weeks since her interview and she's heard zip…nada, from the College. With each day that past the formidable monster of rejection nears ever closer, rendering her hopes of an offer as brittle and easily broken. Surely she would have heard from them by now if they were intent on offering her a place, right?_

_She glances at the clock for the umpteenth time that hour, her thoughts focusing back to another relentless question. Where is David? She feels partly relieved and saddened at his absence: two paradoxical emotions, with the latter she feels unable to explain. It's 6 o'clock now, his arrival always at 5 o'clock. She vaguely wonders whether he's tied up at work or sick. Maybe he has a girlfriend, and he's taking her out to some fancy, swanky restaurant. But, if that is the case, then why has he plagued her with his incessant requests to take her out to dinner all week?_

_She irritably shakes her head, trying to dispel such thoughts. She doesn't care whether he shows up or not._

"_Samantha, can you come out here for a moment?" The request came from her manager, Bob Sherman, a man in his mid-40s with grey thinning hair that had receded entirely on top, a small outcrop circling either side of a wide forehead. He's overweight, quite substantially, a beer belly straining against a thick black belt. But although he appears somewhat rough and tough around the edges, he's a kind-hearted man, placid and patient: a father figure with whom she'd adopted after having began working here four months prior._

_Right now, he stands half in the kitchen, half behind the bar. His hand is outstretched, making _a come here_ gesture. Samantha complies, eyebrows raised._

"_We have a new chef. I need you to just give him a small tour, tell him where everything is and stuff," Bob explains. "He says he knows you, the new cook, I mean. He's a regular here."_

_They're walking towards the back of the kitchen where a tall, broad shouldered man is clad in a white apron, diligently prepares today's special: the chilli con carne. The new chef hears their approach and looks up, his dark locks spilling into his eyes before he brushes them aside. He smiles when he sees her approach because he'd been so looking forward to this. She'll most likely grace him with a glare that could curdle milk, issue a sharp comment that would offend most, all save him, who'll smile and issue his own retort, enjoying every minute of their witty exchange._

_Samantha's eyes lock on his and he grins at her. She scowls and his grin stretches even wider._

_Bob looks between David and Samantha, confusion clouding his features before he asks, "You ok, Samantha?"_

"_I'm just peachy," she mumbles. "I take it _you_ are our new chef?" She directs this question at David, who nods enthusiastically._

"_Yeah, I am," David replies. "I guess we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."_

_She gives a tight smile. "I guess we will."_


	10. Auditions, Dates and More Surprises

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

"Next!" JJ calls.

Ugh. It's not going well. At all. And after having heard just eight violinists, I've heard enough. The last player had been just painful to endure: the screeching, the pitch problems, the bowing problems, the…there were just too many problems. It just highlights how Sam's abilities superseded theirs: he's in a different league, a substantially better player. _Why did he have to break his hand?_

All the other previous players had been mediocre. They weren't particularly bad, but the disparity in the level of playing we require is just too great.

When nobody else enters the room, I slump in my seat and let out a heavy sigh. We're doomed.

Sam sits to the left of me, with Dylan on my other side. I feel squished and slightly claustrophobic huddled together like this, around the table. Whenever I move, my arms inadvertently bump theirs. JJ and Phil don't have to contend with this problem, both having situated themselves on the opposite side of the table where two people can sit comfortably.

"We need someone who's at diploma level," JJ begins, "and a decent sight reader. Do we know anyone?"

"What about your sister?" Sam asks, directing the question at me. "You said she played the violin, right?"

"Yeah," I begin, "but she's not up to the standard we need."

Phil rests his forearms on the table, repeatedly banging his head on the backs of his arms, crying, "We're doomed, we're doomed, we're _so _doomed, we're…" JJ nudges him hard with her elbow, cutting him off in mid flow as his head smacks against the table, his head having missed the backs of his arms. _Ouch._

"Careful, JJ," Dylan lightly reprimands, "don't make it so we have to replace a cellist as well."

"Yeah, JJ," Phil childishly chides, rubbing his forehead.

I glance at my watch: class will be starting soon.

"I'm gonna have to head off, guys," I say. "Can't be late for class, else Mr. Smith will grille me. Literally."

Sam sharply turns his head to me, disappointment clearly written across his face. "Now?"

I nod, giving him a small smile. "Um, maybe we could meet up later? I want to ask you about some music stuff," Sam says, eyes fixed firmly on the cast encasing his broken hand.

I can hear JJ stifling laugher, covering it up with a poorly conceived cough. Phil is also suppressing a smile, and Dylan…he just glares at Sam, who seems totally impervious to the look. A blush creeps its way onto Sam's cheeks as his eyes flit to mine.

"I was just gonna go home straight after class, but if it's really important…" I trail off, waiting for his response.

"Yeah, it kind of is." He nods enthusiastically. "I'll wait for you outside class."

"Ok. See you guys tomorrow," I say.

As I pass though the doors, I hear Phil whisper, "Are you really going to ask her?"

_Ask me what?_

* * *

"Class dismissed," Mr. Smith declares.

I let out a deep breath, relieved. The last hour had just been an agonising taunt: the Red Headed Wonder had been making goo goo eyes at Fang, practically sitting on his lap (no exaggeration), which he'd_ allowed _her to do. He'd even made conversation with her! Fang, the non-converser, spoke _willingly_. When Mr. Smith had issued a few glares at their not so inconspicuous whisperings, they'd resorted to writing on a sheet of paper, and since I was conveniently sitting right behind them, on the next tier of seats, I'd been able to mostly discern their written conversation.

It had transpired as this:

_RHW: I like you a lot. Do you like me?_

_Fang: I don't really know you_

_RHW: We could get to know each other_

_Fang: I'm sort of busy these days. Work and College, so not a lot of time_

_RHW: We could make time. I'm very accommodating_

I hadn't been able to decipher the rest, as Mr. Smith had cast them a suspicious glance, preventing Fang from responding. My straining in my seat to read the written conversation may have also had something to do with it, in which Mr. Smith had asked whether I was still paying attention. Fang had turned round sharply, his eyebrows raised as he noticed my hunched forward position, my neck craning to see what was written on the paper. It had clicked as well, what I had been trying to do, it being clearly evident when a grin had alighted on his face. _Jerk._

I gather up my stuff quickly as everyone files out the room, furtively glancing behind me to see the Red Headed Wonder lingering behind with Fang. My jaw clenches and I'm fuming inside.

Sam' s there, waiting for me outside, his lithe form leaning against the wall. His face lights up and he smiles when he spots me. I smile back.

"Hey, so what…" I say, with Sam in unison asking, "do you want to go out with me tonight?"

"What?" I ask, wondering whether I'd heard correct.

He takes a deep breath, his cheeks a flaming red. "Um, I was wondering…if you, maybe, wanted to go out with me to dinner? With me? Tonight? Although another night would be fine too if you were busy or something."

I don't know what to say (and that's saying something). I like Sam. A lot. But the thought of him and me together has never really entered my mind. He's kind-caring Sam who holds doors open for me, greets me with warm smiles and makes me laugh. I've only ever considered him as a friend, but…looking at him, right now, in a new light, makes me question as to whether my feelings for him are not solely restricted to friendship. He's cute, no doubt, with wiry hair that curls at the tops of his ears and at the nape of his neck. His eyes are a hazel colour: warm and welcoming, but, right now, looking anywhere but at me.

"Um, I…"

I cut off, the high-pitched laughter of the Red Headed Wonder reverberating across the near-empty hall. I turn round, instantly noting how close Fang and her are. My eyes lock with hers and she grins at me. She slips a piece of paper into his hands and says, "Don't forget to call me," giving him a flirtatious smile before she struts off, grinning triumphantly at me as she walks by.

My jaw clenches and my hands curl into fists. My blood boils.

Fang's eyes snap to mine, his face impassive.

I know what I'm going to say to Sam then, not hesitating once as I turn to him, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "Yeah, I'd love to go out with you tonight."

His eyes light up and he graces me with a broad smile, teeth and all. "Great! I'll pick you up at 6?"

I nod. "You'll need my address," I say, ripping a scrap of paper from my notebook, scribbling a barely legible address down. I hand him the paper and we walk out, with me not once glancing back at Fang.

* * *

"I'm home," I call.

I can smell chocolate chip cookies, but the sumptuous aroma does not suffice enough to settle my escalating nerves. I know nothing about dating…zip…nada. _So why had I agreed? What if I make a fool of myself? What if he tries to kiss me?_

I enter the kitchen and force a smile onto my lips, trying to quell my mounting anxiety.

"We've got your favourite tonight, Max," Mom reports, hunched over the cooker, stirring a pot.

Ella's diligently chopping carrots, and issues a short, "hey."

"Actually," I begin, deciding I might as well just be forward and tell them about the date, "I'm going out tonight."

"Oh," Mom says, her attention still occupied with the pot, "with friends?"

"He's a friend," I agree.

Both Ella and Mom's head snaps towards me. "Wait," Ella starts, "when you say _he_, do you mean you actually have a date?"

I nod.

"That'll be fun. But be careful," Mom says. I roll my eyes, and she fixes me with a hard look.

"I'm just being a little protective," she continues, "I've never met him before. Does he have any tattoos? Piercings? He's not picking you up on a motorcycle, is he? Because I prohibit you to ever ride on one of those death traps."

I laugh, surprisingly relieved. "No, he has no tattoos or piercings. He has a car and will be picking me up at 6 o'clock. It's Sam, the boy I was telling you about from the string group."

This seems to ease her concern and she nods approvingly.

"I'm getting you ready," Ella informs me. "Give me five minutes to finish these vegetables, and we'll get started."

_WHAT?_

"Ella, you really don't have to," I say.

She goes back to chopping and retorts, "Five minutes, Max. Meet me in my room, I need to de-minger-fy you."

I sigh dramatically. "Thanks Ella."

"You're welcome. What are sisters for, eh?"

* * *

It's five to six. Sam will be arriving any minute.

I tuck a curled strand of hair behind my ear. Ella has once again transformed me into someone who I can barely recognise as myself. The girl in the mirror wears a light blue dress that reaches just above her knees. It's neither too formal nor too casual: perfect for a dinner date. Makeup lightly touches her eyelids in the form of a pale blue colour, her eyes further accentuated by mascara and eyeliner. Her lips are coated in a thin sheen of lip-gloss, also.

Ella stands to the side of me, hands on hips, a triumphant smile on her lips. "I do a good job, don't I?"

"Not bad," I agree. "I look really nice."

Ella rolls her eyes, her outstretched hand indicating my reflection. "You look beautiful," she corrects.

I smile, my nerves returning with avengeance when I hear the knock at the door, hear my mom cheerfully greet with, "You must be Sam. Come in."

I take a deep breath, hoping I don't suddenly puke.

"Have fun," Ella says, practically shoving me out the door.

* * *

We're in an Italian restaurant, situated in a far off corner. Exotic paintings hung in thick gold frames, depicting geographical wonders that stretch across the globe: waterfalls, forests, mountains. Couples are dotted around, here and there, holding hands across the tables, making goo goo eyes at each other. We don't look like that, do we?

Candles are situated on every table, creating a romantic ambience. The tablecloth is white and I vaguely worry about whether I'll get sauce on it: I'm a messy eater, and somehow always manage to inflict stains wherever I go.

Sam's face is hidden behind the menu, while mine is placed closed in front of me, having already decided what to order. We've made only stilted conversation so far, Sam seemingly quiet and perhaps a little uneasy since we arrived here. Occasionally, after casting a sweeping glance round the room, my eyes would return to his and he quickly looks away, blushing. He's commented a couple of times already how beautiful he thinks I look, with me equally commending his appearance, his attire consisting of dark trousers and a blue shirt.

He places the menu on the table and gives me a small smile. "Ready to order?"

"Yep."

He tries to catch the eye of one of the waiters, all of who are huddled in the corer beside the stage. I know they sometimes have acts performing here, although tonight, I'm not sure whether there'll be any music. I'm really hungry and don't want to be kept waiting, so I wave at them, trying to grab their attention.

One of them spots me, a female, and she comes over.

"Do you guys want to order?" she asks, her pen poised on her pad.

"Yeah," Sam begins, "I'll have the tagliatelle and a coke."

"I'll have the spaghetti bolognaise and a water," I say.

She repeats our orders and leaves to get us our drinks.

Neither of us speaks for several minutes, so I listen to the murmured conversations of the couples around me. Nerves still plague me, our silences growing longer and more protracted. _Say something, Max._

"This is nice," I say.

He nods, smiling. "Yeah, I'd actually been meaning to ask you out for some time."

"Oh?"

"It'd just taken me awhile to work up the courage to ask you."

He's completely sincere, his cheeks lightly flushing at the admission. My hands are resting clasped on the table and he reaches across with his good hand, holding his hand in mine. I notice for the first time just how long and slender his fingers are: they're violinist hands.

"I'm glad you asked me here tonight," I say, and I am. Yes, I'm nervous and totally out of my depth and am plagued with silly worries like: _are my hands too clammy? Am I gripping his hand too tightly?_ But, irrelevant of all those worries, I'm happy for having been asked out by such a nice guy.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a deep voice calls on stage. The man is middle aged and thick around the middle. His hair is receding and he's clad in a dark suit. "Allow me to introduce this evenings entertainment: Nick Ride."

I don't join in with the clapping, stunned into disbelief.

"Max?" Sam tries to get my attention, but I don't supply a response.

My eyes remain solely focused on the stage, watching as Fang steps onto the stage with a violin in hand. He plucks his opening notes and, when he's satisfied with the tuning, he securely places the violin under his chin and lifts up his bow and begins to play. I recognise the piece instantly as Chanson de Matin, having heard Ella play it sometime last year. I love the piece, and what's more, I love Fang's interpretation of it. He's a truly captivating performer: his upper body swaying gently with the music, his bow moving fluidly, his hand moving from position to position with such precision and accuracy. His tone is rich and his performance holds contrasting sections of loud and quiet, building momentum and volume as the piece reaches its climax.

When he finishes I clap along with everyone else, all save Sam, who sits frowning, jaw clenched. "He made some mistakes," Sam declares, "and his bowing needs work. I've heard better."

"Have we?" I ask. "He's ten times better than those we saw earlier today. We need another player, and he's the best we've seen. We have three weeks until our first performance and we need someone quick." I'm mildly surprised at my own eagerness to have Fang as our new player, but then remember that we need _someone_, and soon, even if that person happens to be the devil incarnate.

Fang plays a few more pieces: a contrast of concertos, jigs, and film music. As he leaves the stage, I scrape my chair back, forgetting my half eaten meal to corner him.

"Fang?" I call. His head snaps round instantly, his eyes widening infinitesimally: the Fang equivalent of utter shock.

"Max? What are you doing here?"

"I'm on a date," I state, "with Sam."

He raises an eyebrow. "Sam the wiener?" He shakes his head, disproving. "You could do a lot better. Let me take you out instead."

I give a short laugh. "He is better. He's a great guy and I'm having a wonderful time."

"Then why are you here talking to me, Max? Shouldn't you be with lover boy?"

I clench my teeth, trying to keep my calm, but man, did he rile me to no end. Perhaps spending more time together would be a bad idea. "I didn't realise you played violin," I begin, trying to keep my anger in check. "We could have used you in the school orchestra last year."

"Couldn't get enough of me?"

I roll my eyes, regretting ever thinking I could have him playing with us. It would mean even more time with him, and class on its own is more than enough.

"You look beautiful, by the way," he says. He appears sincere, his eyes boring into mine with such intensity. I can feel my lips involuntarily tugging upwards, until I remember that this is Fang and he's most likely pulling my leg.

"What did you think?" he asks, looking expectantly, referring to his playing. He's grinning, but it appears forced and he seems suddenly tense and apprehensive.

"I think," I pause, vaguely wondering whether I'm going to regret this, "that you're good. Very good."

The grin becomes a smile and my heart gives a small squeeze.

"Which is why," I continue, "I'm going to invite you to play in our quintet. We need a temporary player, just for the next two months. We've got a few gigs lined up, and we need someone to play First Violin." I pause, then add, "You'll get paid."

"You don't need to sell it to me anymore, Maxie," he says, "spending more time with you will be reward enough."

I cringe. "On second thought, Fangie, I retract that offer."

He holds up his hand in peace, his violin and bow in the other. "Even if I promise to behave?"

"You'll have to perform in front of the others, and they'll have to give you the thumbs up. But you're the best we've seen so far, and our first performance is in three weeks."

"Little last minute, don't you think?"

"Sam broke his hand last week," I explain.

"I noticed before. How'd he do that?"

"Shut his hand in a cello case."

Fang begins to chuckle and I frown, intent on defending Sam. "It wasn't his fault," I continue, "it was an accident."

"Well, yes," he says between bursts of laughter, "people don't normally shut their hands in cello cases on purpose. He's such a weiner."

"Hey," I say, smacking his arm.

_Ouch,_ he mouths.

"Wimp."


	11. Auditions and Car Rides

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Responding to a review, a minger is an unattractive and slovenly person. A merchant, in regards to 'windup merchant', is someone who deals with winding people up the wrong way. Massacre was an unnoticed spelling mistake (oops, sorry), it was meant to be mascara.**

**Responding to another review, Ambiguity is a fictional novel I created to gain creative interplay between the two stories.**

I enter the music room with a mild feeling of apprehension. It's the day after my date and the day after I invited Fang to join our quintet.

I find Sam sitting at the piano, randomly pressing keys with his good hand.

"Hey," I call.

He turns round sharply, responding to my voice and grins, a look of remembrance passing between us of last light. I blush.

After I'd spoken to Fang, Sam had remained mostly quiet, picking at his food. Fortunately, he'd perked up somewhat during desert and I'd been able to engage him in conversation, talking about College and family and stuff. It turns out we are both avid listeners of Ludovic Einaudi, a wicked pianist, and both enjoy Bach's many movements. Our interests, however, do not extend as far to novels. Sam isn't much of a reading enthusiast, having not even picked up a novel since high school. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.

It had been your stereotypical date (minus Fang's unexpected appearance), where the guy pays for the meal (although I had insisted on paying my share), where he walks you to the door, lingering for a moment or two before leaning forward and lightly pressing his lips against yours. It was nice, and I'd eagerly kissed him back, albeit after my internal freak out. We broke apart when the porch light blinked on. I'm pretty sure Ella had been peering not so inconspicuously through the curtains, watching us. He'd pecked me on the cheek before leaving then, and, according to Ella, I'd had a 'happy glow' when I'd walked inside that was 'blinding'.

"Yo guys," Phil calls, lugging his hefty cello case behind him. JJ soon follows, with Dylan just on her tail.

"Hey," I begin, "I need to talk to you about a potential new player."

As if on cue, there's a light knock on the door and Fang's head peeps inside. His eyes roam the room before they lock on mine and he comes in with his violin case in hand.

"F-Nick here," I begin, jerking my thumb at Fang, "is a pretty good violinist."

"How good?" Dylan asks, sitting down in his normal seat, crossing his arms and legs. I get the feeling (being the empathetic person that I am), that Dylan doesn't like Fang being here. JJ, on the other hand…

"Let's give him a chance," JJ says. "I have a feeling he'll be good. Call it player intuition. Show us what you've got, Nick."

Fang simply nods, getting his violin out and plucking a few notes, turning his adjusters until he's satisfied with the tuning. He plays a stereotypical performance piece: Czardaz, grinding his bow across the strings in the opening passage, completing a complex series of notes until Sam holds up his hand, halting him in mid play.

"Wow," JJ says, a look of wonder evident on her face. I can't help but agree with her. He's as good as Sam, if not superseding him in some ways. Fang has great musicality, lacking more so in the technical side, which was one of Sam's primal strengths: his playing always looks extremely impressive. Fang, on the other hand, instills more emotion into his playing, reflecting the desired moods and tones of a piece. We can correct his technical faults, whereas his ability to connect with the music in such a way cannot be achieved through rigorous practice. You either have it or you don't, and boy, does he have it. Fang is just full of surprises.

"Dude," Phil begins, "that was awesome." He fleetingly meets eyes with all of us, receiving nods from both JJ and I. Dylan and Sam are a little more adamant, however, and require pointed looks from both JJ and I: we can't be too picky about who we choose now. We need someone, and that is that. It's just unfortunate my archenemy turned out to be such a damn good violinist. Life just ain't fair.

"Welcome to the group," Phil shouts, and claps Fang on the back. "We better show you what we're playing and tell you our rehearsal times."

"Cool, thanks," Fang says, "but I'm kind of restricted to playing time. I can't practice any later than quarter past two: I have to pick up my siblings from school and watch 'em while my mom's at work."

Phil raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Isn't that a bit early for school to finish. Couldn't you stay til 3 o'clock? That's the time we normally finish, and we're gonna be needing a lot of practice."

"There aren't many frequent buses to wear we live, and there's a train journey involved," I supply. Travelling here via public transport is a nightmare. Thank God I have my own car.

Phil asks: "You guys live in the same village?"

Both Fang and I nod.

"Well, can't Max just give you a lift back? 'Cause 45 minutes a day is kind of a lot."

_WHAT?_

I suppose it would solve our problems, but spending _even more_ time with Fang, in an enclosed space, does not appeal to me one iota. A 45 minute loss of practice isn't that long, is it?

"Could you?" JJ asks, looking hopeful.

Damn. Fang will need every bit of practice we can offer him, _if_ we are to deliver our desired standard of playing.

Fang looks at me, the impassive mask fixed in place. He's giving nothing away, save his eyes, which seem to watch me very carefully, scrutinising me for some reaction.

"Ok," I sigh.

A fleeting smile situates itself onto his face: _thank you._

* * *

Practice progresses with only a few minor blips. Fang shows clear talent in regards to sight-reading, having been able to somewhat blag his way though all the pieces. _Why does he have to be good at everything?_ But while JJ and Phil are accommodating, slowing down for him and indicating which bars they're at if he loses his way, Dylan says nothing. Sam also offers little in regards to support, slandering him rather than giving him helpful advice on bowing and positioning. I'm going to have to talk to them both, I think. I almost feel sorry for Fang. Almost. But it's clear he can handle himself when he retorts to a snide comment issued by Sam, that if he wants him here he should keep his comments to himself, unless it's some helpful advice, because otherwise, he's out of here. "I've got better things I could be doing," Fang says. "I'm doing _you_ a favour here." Although that last comment is aimed at Sam for the most part, his eyes flit to mine briefly.

And so, at the end of practice, that leaves Fang and I in my car. Alone. Oh, joy (note sarcasm). Surprisingly, Fang had offered little in regards to conversation during practice. It had been almost strange us not verbally snapping and jabbing at each other. We'd almost been…civil, towards each other. It's kinda scary. But then I realize that perhaps Fang isn't as comfortable around the others as he is with me. He'd known them for three hours, while he'd known me for fourteen years.

"Sam's a jealous wiener," Fang states as he straps himself in, sitting beside me in the passenger seat.

I sigh. "He's not a wiener and there's no reason for him to be jealous. I like _him_, not you."

I start the car as Fang turns to me with his eyebrows raised, that silly smirk of his playing on his lips. "I didn't mean he was jealous that I might steal you away from him. I meant that he was jealous of my amazing violin skills."

A blush creeps its way onto my cheeks and his grin stretches even wider. _Way to go, Max. Just stick your foot in it, why don't you._

"Then again," Fang continues, "he's probably noticed all those flirtatious looks you keep giving me. He's probably guessed that you love me by now. It's not fair you stringing him on like that, y'know?"

I force a laugh and pull out of my parking space, using driving as an excuse not to look at his smug face. _Jerk._

"Let's get a couple of things straight, Fangie. First of all, I don't like you. At all. You are the biggest pain in the ass I have ever met, and the only reason I invited you to join our group was because we were desperate. We'd held auditions previously and they hadn't turned out well, ok? Second of all, Sam is a brilliant player. We would never replace him. And third of all, did I mention I hate you?"

Fang chuckles and says, "Maybe once or twice. I'm just waiting for you to tell me you love me, 'cause I'll start counting then."

I let out a small, frustrated sound, instantly regretting it as it spurs on another round of laughter from him. It's a shame, really, because Fang actually has quite a nice laugh. It's just unfortunate I only ever hear it when it's at my expense. _Jerk._

"You know," I begin, "if you don't cut out all this love crap, I'm going to stop this car and make you walk."

"You wouldn't dare," he says, suddenly serious.

"Oh yes, I would."

He latches onto the fact that I'm serious and remains quiet. _Wise move._ Although the silence isn't been awkward like I first anticipated it would be, I prefer Fang quiet, and so to deter him from uttering any more nonsensical remarks, I switch on the CD player. The Bruch concerto in D major tinkles softly though the speakers.

Fang turns to me sharply, his face taking on a look of surprise. "You like Bruch?"

"I love Bruch," I say. "I'd love to see this piece performed by an actual orchestra. The bass part is amazing." I imitate the bass part in a somewhat low, bass-like hum and instantly blush, realising just how stupid I must sound.

I stop at a red light and my eyes flit to his, anticipating some snide comment that will only fuel my embarrassment. But he doesn't, he's staring straight at me, smiling. Not a Fang-smirk, but a real smile that reveals a set of brilliant teeth. I can't help the small smile that tugs its way onto my lips in response, and I can't help but find myself lost in eyes so dark and holding such depth, that they seem to glisten with..._something_. I just can't discern what. We stay like that until a cacophony of horns and shouting passengers blare behind us. The lights have turned green and I still haven't moved. Damn. I drive quickly, cursing quietly under my breath.

_What the hell was that?_

**I know this is a short chapter, but I promise the next one will be much longer.**

**Peace, love and coca cola!**


	12. Redheads, Friendship and then Arguments

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Wow! 108 reviews. Thanks a lot! All kinds of reviews are welcome – I appreciate any kind of feedback.**

_An extract from Chapter 10 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha frowns at her cup of coffee. She sits in one of the empty booths, on her break, a book she is currently reading left unopened at her side. David would be walking through those doors any minute now, ready to start his shift. It would be his second day on the job, and with Samantha having already given him a brief tour yesterday, would (hopefully) have very little contact with him. But although she endeavoured to ultimately avoid him, she wants to ask him a burning question: _why are you here?

_It just doesn't make sense, his opting for a minimum wage job, and here, of all places. He'd worn fancy suits and must have had a high power, high paying job. So why is he here?_

_She'd posed the question to him already yesterday, but he'd only skirted around it, responding with "because you're here" and "I fancied a change". Who in their right mind would give up a comfy, well-paid job in an office for one in a hot, stuffy kitchen?_

_She's so preoccupied with her thoughts that she fails to hear the footsteps behind her, and fails to see the man slip into the seat opposite her. Until, he reaches his hand out towards her, pulling her book towards him._

"_David!" she exclaims, jumping at the sudden realisation of his presence._

"_Samantha!" He replicates her surprised voice, much to her annoyance, and frowns._

_She goes to grab her book back, but David pulls it even further from out of her reach. She rolls her eyes and orders, "Give it."_

_He raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Jane Austen?"_

"_So? I saw it on the syllabus of the course I want to take at College, so I thought I'd give it a go."_

_She stands up, heading over to the bar, David following close behind her._

"_Have they offered you a place?" he asks, casually leaning against the bar as Samantha settles herself behind it._

_She momentarily stiffens at his question, as she still has yet to hear from the College. She'd just been generally interested in picking up the novel when seeing the authors name on practically every English course offered across the State._

"_I haven't heard from the College yet," Samantha admits, wiping a damp cloth across the bar, while David fumbles with one of the stray bear mats._

"_I'm sure you'll hear something soon," he consoles, "how could they turn you down?"_

_He appears genuinely sincere, but she can't be too sure. Perhaps he's winding her up, as per usual._

"_Even if they do," she says, "College still costs a bit. I'm not sure whether I'll have enough money in the end to start this year." A large sum of her recently required income had been spent on some new, pricey drugs her father had been prescribed for his Alzheimers. The care home she'd been forced to place him in two years prior had also requested a larger bill from her, eating into her College fund even more._

_David stops twirling the beer mat and gives her a small smile._

"_I'm sure something will come up," he says._

I shut the book and rest my head against the car seat, listening to the sharp drops of rain smacking against the window. The fat blobs of precipitation collide with each other, merging and splitting, distorting my view of outside.

Fang is going to be soaked by the time he comes back to my car with Angel and Gazzy in tow. It's been a week since our schedule had commenced: class, quintet practice, and then going to fetch Angel and Gazzy from school. Fang had originally insisted on walking back himself with the kids if I could just drop him off at the school, because it may be a long wait. But me being the oh so generous person I am, had waved off the inconvenience: his house was on the way back to mine anyway, so had agreed to give them a lift back to their house, also.

The door suddenly swings open, allowing a sheet of rain to splatter against the seats. The back door is open also and Angel and Gazzy dive inside, dripping wet. Both wear windbreakers, protecting them from the onslaught of rain. Fang, on the other hand, had not been as prepared in a thin jacket that now clings to him like an extra, tight shirt, outlining his well-muscled arms and chest. His dark hair is plastered against his scalp, rain dripping off his nose, ears and chin. He runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back, keeping it from out of his eyes.

I realise I'm staring and avert my eyes quickly, but it's too late because he's seen me looking. And he's _grinning_. But just so we're clear, I was staring because he's wet and water stains are a _nightmare _to get out.

"I'm really sorry about this, Max," he apologises, indicating his sodden attire.

The downpour had been sudden and unexpected, beginning just as I'd parked outside the school. It couldn't have been anticipated: it was just crappy luck.

"Not your fault. Freakish weather," I say despondently. "Unless you've been singing again. Because that would _definitely_ explain it."

He fixes me with a dark look and I grin.

Angel and Gazzy giggle in the back, amused by my quip. They'd both grown accustomed to us firing insults back and forth at each other, occasionally offering their own remarks in our witty exchanges. They know we're only teasing each other.

"How was school, guys?" I ask as I pull out of my parking space, window wipers swishing back and forth.

"I drew a picture," Angel says, "and the teacher liked it a lot. It's of you and Fang."

I hear her rustle in her bag, retrieving the work.

"Which one's Fang?" Gazzy asks.

"That one," Angel replies, in a duh–like tone.

"He's wearing pink!"

"There weren't any black crayons."

I suppress my laughter, careful to keep my eyes on the road after casting a quick glance at Fang, who's frowning. I'd only ever seen Fang in his usual monochromatic black – a little diversity wouldn't hurt now, would it?

"I reckon you could pull off pink, Fang. You know, a bit of colour in your wardrobe wouldn't hurt," I say, not needing to turn to him to know he's rolling his eyes. "It's your birthday in a couple of months," I continue, "maybe I should buy you a coloured shirt."

"You remember when my birthday is?"

"Yeah," I say, "January 15th, right? I remember Mom forcing me to attend your 7th birthday party."

He chuckles, remembering. "Right," he says, "you blew out my candles and fell into my cake."

"You were too slow," I defend, "you were trying to blow them out individually. People were hungry, we wanted cake." I pause. "And if I remember correctly, I didn't _fall_ into the cake, you _pushed _me into it."

He scoffs. "Because _you_ blew out_ my_ candles."

I'm about to protest more, but Gazzy shouts, "Guys! We're here."

I pull into the drive without a word. The rain has not relented, at all, but in fact, appears to be chucking it down with an even greater intensity. And without my window wipers, I can barely determine anything outside, the rain degrading the street and houses to a blur of colours.

"Right guys," Fang says, "we're going to run inside, as quick as you can, on the count of five."

"Five." He undoes his seatbelt, Angel and Gazzy following suite.

"Four…three…two." He grips the door handle, turns round sharply to face me and says, "Thanks for the lift."

"One!" Angel cries, jumping out with Gazzy, Fang soon on their tail.

"Bye, Max," they shout in unison as they slam my doors, legging it inside.

I wave to them as they reach the porch and drive off, smiling.

* * *

As soon as class is dismissed I go to pick up my books, slotting them into my bag, until I notice a hand snatch up my copy of Ambiguity. I look up, frowning, only to come face to face with Fang. He flips open my book, turning to where I've placed my bookmark.

"You're quite far," he says, and then grins. "But I'm further."

I narrow my eyes at him dangerously, and his grin stretches even wider.

He hands me my book back, our hands brushing together during the brief exchange. I'm glad he fails to notice the slight tint of colour in my cheeks as we walk out of class together, or the smile as I note the scowl on the Red Head Wonder's face as she sees Fang and I together. She's lingering in the doorway, tapping a finger against her short black skirt, no doubt waiting for him.

"Hey Nick," she begins, "do you want to go out tonight?"

There's a look of anticipation and apprehension on her face. I think I mirror this look, also, as I wait with abated breath for his reply. Surely his standards exceed her?

"Um," he begins, "thanks, but I can't. I've got work."

A look of disappointment flits across her face before being replaced by a forced smile. She flips her hair over her shoulder. "Well, how about another night?" she asks, unperturbed.

He bites his lip, nervous. "Now's not a good time, as I've said before. College, quintet practice and work, take up a lot of my time right now."

She frowns. "Quintet? You never mentioned you played an instrument."

"Yeah," he says, as we walk down the hall, Fang between the both of us. "I play violin."

Her finely plucked eyebrows rise upwards in surprise. She smiles. "Really? Wow. Maybe I could hear you play sometime?"

Ok, enough is enough. She's slowing us down, and to be honest, I'm a particularly patient person. I want her gone. _Now_.

"Look," I begin, turning to her with a hard look, "I don't think he's interested, ok?"

She grits her teeth, and snidely remarks, "And what would you know about what he wants? It certainly wouldn't be you: he could do _much_ better than you. We've all seen the way you look at him, and I'm sorry honey, but you haven't got a chance. You'd be a mismatched couple, because you're just not pretty enough."

I gape._ How dare she…_

She grins triumphantly, happy at my reaction. Oh, I'm so gonna wipe that silly smirk off her face with my fist.

We'd all stopped walking as soon as she'd made that bitchy remark, Fang firmly planting himself between both of us, frowning at the Red Headed Wonder. My hands clench into tight fists, and I lunge for her. Only before I can do any _real_ damage, Fang grabs my wrist, hauling me back, and I collide with his firm chest. I can feel my face heating up, partly from our close proximity, but more so from the burning hatred I feel towards the redhead.

"Let me go, Fang," I growl, futilely trying to prise myself from out of his firm grip.

He doesn't, however, and whispers, close to my ear, "Let it go, Max. She's not worth it."

I stop struggling, realising he's right. She isn't worth my time. At all. And fghting on campus, as well, would most certainly get me kicked out.

She'd instantly recoiled when I'd lunged for her, pressing herself firmly against the wall. _Wimp._ That stupid grin had situated itself back onto her lips when Fang had restrained me, most likely thinking he'd done it for her benefit. Was it?

"Listen," Fang says, directing his words at her, his voice hard, "I'm not interested in going out with you. At all. I was trying to let you down easy, but you've just made it very hard."

The Red Head Wonder gasps. _Ha!_

"I'd appreciate it," he continues, "if you wouldn't speak to my friend like that. Especially when Max _is_ better, much better, in fact, than you, in both personality _and_ looks."

She looks incredulous, her mouth agape, until her resolve hardens and she turns round sharply, strutting down the hall. I'm equally surprised, looking up at Fang who still holds my wrist. He'd called me his friend. Is that what we are now? When had we moved out of archenemy territory?

I know he can feel my eyes on him, but he refuses to meet my gaze. He still hasn't let go of my arm, so I gently tug it from out of his grasp and he starts, realising he'd still had a hold of me and takes a step back. He meets my eyes then, looking rather sheepish, biting his lip.

I'm not sure what to say. It feels alien thanking Fang for something, but I have to. He'd just stood up for me. Again.

"Thanks," I say, suddenly timid. The Red Head Wonder's words had particularly hurt, settling in my ears like poison: _you haven't got a chance…you're not pretty enough. _Oh God, I've never been this self conscious before. This is getting just ridiculous. _Get a grip, Max._

We begin walking down the hall when Fang interrupts the cascade of thoughts cycling through my mind. "You shouldn't listen to her, y'know. She's just jealous."

I snort. I don't like revelling in self-pity, but she has nothing to be jealous of.

"You have me," he says, grinning cheekily, "and she doesn't."

I roll my eyes at his egotistical remark. But he has a point. Whether I want Fang or not, he's always been around.

"In that case," I say, "I'm definitely jealous of her. I'd love to get rid of you."

He puts a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. "Ouch," he says. And then he turns to me seriously, all playfulness devoid from his eyes. "She was wrong in what she said. You are very pretty. Only difference is you don't need layers of makeup and short skirts to look nice."

I smile, warmth instantly flooding through me in response to his kind words. Is this really Fang? Maybe it's a clone, or he has a twin, and I've just been subjected to the evil one for all of these years.

He grins suddenly, the playful twinkle establishing itself back in his eyes. "Although, if you want to wear a short skirt…"

He trails off and I whack him on the arm, smiling nonetheless.

* * *

"Max! Fang!" Phil greets from his seat, cello beside his feet.

JJ and Dylan are already seated, also, practice supposed to having commenced ten minutes ago. But our tardiness couldn't have been stopped: the Red Head Wonder had to be dealt with first.

Sam sits in the corner, frowning, his arms and legs crossed. His visits have been sporadic to rehearsal, most likely because of Fang. But in some ways Sam's absence is preferable, as Fang and Sam seem to have a mutual dislike towards each other, glowering whenever possible, offering snide remarks whenever possible. And although I know Dylan dislikes Fang equally, he's chosen to ignore him instead. Sam is always the main provocateur, surprisingly, never missing an opportunity to harshly criticise Fang's playing. I'd spoken to Sam the other day, telling him to suck it up and be nice or we'd lose our First Violin. I think my words had, as they say, gone in one ear and out the other.

"Where've you been?" Sam demands. Seriously? I feel like my Mom is interrogating me after walking into the house passed curfew.

I shrug. "Nowhere. We just bumped into trouble. But problem solved, _Mom_," I answer, annoyance seeping into my voice.

He turns to glare at Fang, who appears completely impervious to the look. To Fang's credit, he's tried to ignore Sam's harsh, unjust comments. But everyone has a line, and Sam is nearing closer to it all the time.

"I'm ready," Fang says, taking his place.

"About time," Sam mumbles. We all ignore him, with me rolling my eyes. I despair.

"My hand hurts," Phil complains, after a three hour session. The pieces are coming along now, and what with just another two weeks left until we're scheduled to play at this fancy dinner, we should be ready. _Phew._

As I'm shoving my music together, Sam comes over.

"I'm sorry," he says, genuine sincerity alighted on his face. I simply nod, wondering what exactly he's referring to. He's been a bit of a jerk lately.

"I shouldn't have demanded where you were," he continues, "it's just you and Fang…" He trails off and I turn to face him, frowning.

"What about me and Fang?"

He rubs his neck, uncomfortable. "You're close."

"I've known him a long time," I say, "but we're not like best friends or anything. We bicker and wind each other up most the time. You know that." I don't mention that, by some miracle, we're actually getting on somewhat recently, and I'm finding fewer moments where I feel the compulsion to wring his neck.

Sam shakes his head and gives me a small smile, forcing a short laugh. "Yeah, you're right. I just don't want him taking you away from me."

He slings an arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer. I haven't seen him much over the past week, keeping contact with him solely through phone messages. We'd both been busy with essays, and over the weekend, Sam had been forced to attend a family reunion.

I try relaxing into Sam's embrace, but I can't help feeling tense and slightly uncomfortable. I'm a huggie person. And when I've caught sight of Fang watching us, intently, his jaw clenched and the almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes, I pull away. It's stupid because I shouldn't feel guilty, and yet I do.

I fake a smile and pat Sam's arm, almost awkwardly. His good hand entwines with mine and he smiles. My eyes cast over Fang's briefly. His eyes are downcast now as he waits for me by the door.

"I've got to go, Sam," I mumble.

He walks me towards the door, still holding my hand, swinging it back and forth. "Maybe we could go out tomorrow? It'll be the weekend, so unless you've got anything planned, we could go bowling or see a film."

I nod. "Sure. Just let me know when."

He flashes me a broad smile before kissing me on the cheek, briefly looking to Fang, most likely to scrutinise his reaction. Hadn't we just passed the whole jealousy thing?

"I've really got to go," I say, gently removing my hand from his.

"I'll call you," he says, as Fang and I exit the music room.

We walk down the halls together in silence, and then walk thought the car park in silence. We get in the car, fasten our seatbelts, and Fang still hasn't said a word. He just looks straight ahead, outside the window, wearing that mask I thought we'd shelved somewhere: his impassive mask. Now, I can't tell what he's feeling or what he's thinking. And I hate it.

I look at my watch and force a smile. "It's been twenty minutes," I say, "since your last witty remark. I think this is a record."

He simply nods, refusing to look at me. I pull out of my parking space, waiting for him to start speaking: I want to know what's wrong, but I already have a sinking feeling I know what.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask, annoyance tinting my tone.

He looks to me now, the mask gone, his eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?" he asks, incredulous. "What's wrong with _you_? Sam is a jealous wiener, who's frankly, an ass. Why the hell are you with him?"

I gape briefly, closing my mouth to retort, "Sam is not a wiener and he's not an ass. He's a great guy who's worried, for some crazy reason, that I'd ever want to go off with you."

Have you ever said something you so wished you could retract? I'd said the latter half of my rant coldly, and I'd instantly regretted it.

He gives a short bark of bitter laughter. "Am I not good enough for you, Max?"

Again I gape, stunned at his question. There's no mirth in his voice: he's being serious.

"What? I didn't mean it to sound so harsh," I say, "does it matter?"

My eyes flit briefly to his face before locking back onto the road: he's looking out the window, purposefully avoiding my gaze.

"It was just a question," he responds tersely, "you know your own mind, only not when you're around Sam, because when he throws some tantrum and he apologises, seemingly all sincere, you agree to go out with him again."

"I agreed to go out with him because I like him!"

"Really? Because you didn't seem that comfortable to me when he was holding you. Do you really want to be with him?"

I grit my teeth. "Sam's a good guy who's nice to me and cares about me. He's not some enigma, and I know what he's thinking and feeling most of the time." Damn. I've said too much. Fang will know I'm comparing him with Sam.

He turns to me sharply now, only I refuse to look at him, keeping my eyes focused on the road.

"What other similarities have you deduced from us then?" he demands, his voice rising in volume. "Who's better looking? Who makes you laugh? Who's known you for 14 years, while he's known you for what? Two months? And even then, how well does he _really_ know you?"

I don't bother answering. He isn't being fair.

"Just shut up," I say.

Silence settles around us like an itchy blanket: it's uncomfortable as we sit in the tense ambience for a few, almost unbearable moments. And then he says, "Let me out."

I comply, pulling up beside a curb. We're near enough the school, so he'll be fine. I want – _need_ him gone. I'm practically seething, my hands curled tightly on the wheel, because if I keep them there, they can't wrap around his neck.

He gets out without a word.


	13. Projects and Forgotten Lunch Money

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Thanks to alexeya09 who recommended Forever the Sickest Kids' She's a Lady – the song really does hold elements that describe Max and Fang's relationship.**

**To Miss Charz, I have an idea as to how I want Ambiguity to progress, but have not written it all down. I keep thinking of new ideas to put in the book and how it could correspond with the events in Max and Fang's life, so write it as I go along.**

As I walk into the classroom, a bout of anxiety assaults me at the prospect of seeing Fang. Friday's argument hadn't been like one of our normal tithes: there were no jokes or banter, no mock rage or petty squabbling. And for whatever reason, it really bothers me.

The weekend had dragged on, long and laborious, filled with repetitive essays until my date with Sam. We'd gone to see a movie (some mushy-crap Sam had brought tickets to prior, which I'd endured, not having the heart to tell him I'd much prefer to see a thriller or action film), and then went out for some ice cream. It was nice, and I'd had fun. But…for a moment there, I could have sworn I'd seen Fang in the movie theatre. Only, when the suspected-Fang turned round, I realised I'd been duped. I'd felt so stupid as well as a flare of hope had rushed through me at the prospect of him being there also, and that maybe he'd spot me and grin and I'd know we were ok.

If Fang apologises first, I'll follow suit, but until then... Call it my stubborn streak, but I'd done nothing to warrant him criticising me like that, questioning whether I like Sam at all. And anyway, why should he care about who I date or not? It's none of his business.

I hesitantly open the door to the classroom: the class is only half full, with no sign of Fang. _Where is he?_

"Right," Mr. Smith begins, standing up from behind his desk, papers in his hand. "I have your creative writing pieces here, which I'll be issuing you with later. Until then…"

"Sorry I'm late," the door swings open, Fang swiftly shutting it behind him.

A sardonic smile flits its way onto Mr. Smith's lips. He hates tardiness. "Good of you to join us, Mr. Ride. Next time, on time please."

Fang simply nods.

"Before I was interrupted," Mr. Smith continues, "I was going to speak to you about your group projects. These constitute as 15% of your grade, and will be delivered in front of the class in a month's time, which will give you plenty of time to dazzle me with your efforts."

"Can we pick our own partners?" a blond girl asks, sitting beside me. Her eyes stray to Fang, leaving no doubt in my mind as to who she has in mind.

"No. I'll be picking your partners." _Seriously? If I'm paired with the Red Head Wonder, I'm gonna fail!_

He reads the names of the pairs from off a list. As the numbers of my potential partners begin to dwindle, I have a sinking feeling as to who I'm going to be stuck with. I swear, sometimes, the world must be out to get me.

"Nick Ride and Maxine Martinez, you'll be the next pair. I'd like to speak to you two at the end, as well."

When class finally comes to an end, I linger behind with Fang.

"You wanted to see us, Sir?" Fang asks, me coming up right beside him. He's deliberately avoiding my eye.

"Yes," he says, "do you know why I paired you two together?"

In unison we shake our heads.

"You're my best students. I know I shouldn't say that, but I will. Some of the other students in this class couldn't give a damn, I think. There's pizza stains on their work, and some of their spelling…" He shakes his head, appalled. "Anyway, I have high hopes of an outstanding presentation from both of you. I also wanted to present you with your creative writing pieces."

He smiles as he hands us our work, the upturn of his lips a strange sight to see, as I'm only ever accustomed to him frowning.

"Promising writers, both of you. I was impressed, particularly with yours, Miss Martinez. Quite a talent you have there. Your characters are well developed, and you have an excellent grasp of the English language." I'm grinning from ear to ear, surprised and ecstatic. He likes my work!

He then turns to Fang. "Well, Mr. Ride, you have quite the sentimental side. Was this unrequited love based on personal experience?" _Fang has women practically throwing themselves at him left, right and centre. So who the hell would turn_ him_ down?_

"Um…" Fang stalls, "no…no, just…just an idea."

Mr. Smith holds up his hand. "Well, it was quite simply beautiful. My wife had tears in her eyes when I read it to her."

Fang stops biting his lip to give a small smile. _Sentimental side? I've only just discovered Fang has a heart. What the hell had he written?_

"That was all I wanted to say, really," Mr. Smith says. "Keep up the good work."

We nod and say our thanks and goodbyes.

As we descend the steps to the music room, silence envelops us, neither one of us prepared to initiate a conversation. Well, this is going to be a fun practice (note sarcasm).

As Fang, Dylan, JJ, and Phil, pack up their instruments after a two hour practice, I close the piano lid and gather my music sheets together. Sam had sat through practice mostly in silence, offering helpful advice occasionally to all of us. He'd even been civil to Fang! I suppose our little talk last week must have put his mind to rest, and that Fang and I are_ never_ going to be together. Never. Ever. No. Way. _Jose._

Suddenly wiry arms encircle me and I'm pulled against someone's chest.

"Hey," Sam whispers, his mouth close to my ear.

I smile and lean back into him, trying not to tense up. I've never been much of a huggie person, and for whatever reason, I've always had this insatiable desire to keep people at length.

"I had a lot of fun on Sunday," Sam continues.

"Me too," I say, disentangling myself from his arms. A frown mars his face for a moment, before I issue a small smile and pat his arm. "I'll see you tomorrow," I say, preparing to leave the room. He stops me, however, placing a quick kiss on my lips. My eyes flit over towards Fang. When my eyes lock with his, he instantly looks away and leaves the room.

* * *

It has been four days since Fang and I had been paired together, and a week since our argument. I suspect JJ, Dylan, and Phil, are aware that _something_ has happened between us, and are no longer speaking. Normally, we'll bicker, exchanging mock insults between one another, so the sudden turn from bickering to silence is bound to turn heads. Neither one of us wants to apologise, and neither one of us wants to start up a conversation. But one of us is gonna have to, because otherwise, our grades will suffer: we're partners in this project, after all, and in order to do well, we'll have to start speaking. And soon.

Fortunately, our afternoon practices have been coming to an end sooner than usual as the Music room is currently being used as a temporary practice room for a brass group that will be participating in a concert next week. It means that I haven't been required to give Fang a lift back all week.

I head to the canteen, deciding I better get some lunch before my next class. I'm starved! And my stomach hasn't stopped grumbling all day. _Note to self: don't skip breakfast r.e. pack cookies for emergencies._

There are about two dozen students spread across dining tables, lining in front of the counter, scrutinising what is edible and what is not. I park myself behind the dwindling line, spotting a burger that has my name written all over it: _Max's burger, hands off!_ I'm drooling, literally, at the prospect of munching into such a delicacy, until I go rummaging in my pockets for some change, coming up empty handed. I give a feeble smile to the woman who stands behind the counter. She's impatient, her hand outstretched, waiting for me to give her the money. _Damn._

"I guess I've left my money at home," I say, feeling sheepish.

"I'll pay." I recognise the voice instantly, and prepare to protest when the money's placed in her hand and she puts it in the till. Too late.

"I'll pay you back," I tell Fang, going over to sit at a table. He follows me, a bottle of coke in his hand.

He shrugs. "No biggie. I never paid you for all the taxiing you did last week."

I don't protest. Fuel prices _are_ pretty extortionate.

Fang sips his drink while I pick at my burger, no longer hungry.

"We have a project to do," he states.

I nod.

He continues: "We've been given our topic of research so…"

I nod again.

"We have three weeks until it's due…"

Again, I nod.

"We should probably get started soon…"

This time I go to nod, only Fang stops me by asking, "Are you listening? Or have you once again left your brain at home? Because you're bobbing your head up and down like the Churchill dog on the adverts."

I roll my eyes. "No, just thinking. You may want to try it some time."

"Oh, I do," he says, "all the time. Only it doesn't take as much concentration for me as it does for you. I can talk _and_ think, at the _same time_."

"Men can't multitask."

"I can."

"I stress…_men_ can't multitask."

I trail off, smirking as he narrows his eyes at me. I'm surprised at how elated and…light, I feel. Even if he is the biggest pain in the ass ever, I'm glad we're speaking again. His face seems lighter too: his eyes shining, and he's less closed off. All week I've been unable to read him: he'd worn that mask of reticence, but for now, he's taken it off. I'm going to bring up our argument, and I get the feeling, neither is Fang. We'll forget about it...for now.

"You could come to my house," I say, getting back on track, "and we could work on the project there."

He frowns. "I have to watch the kids." _Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about Fang's big brother responsibilities._

"Okay," I say. "We'll have to work on it at your house instead. And just so you know, I want nothing less than an A on this presentation, so you better pull your weight."

"Remind me, Max,' he says, leaning forward. He's close, our noses only a couple inches apart. I can feel my cheeks flaring up, but I don't pull away. I'm kinda trapped in his gaze. "Who has the higher IQ?"

He pulls away suddenly and I blink. He's smirking, and I'm wondering why the hell I haven't slapped him for invading my personal space like that. I'm also wondering why I haven't fired some witty retort back yet. But then some neurons fire back into action in my brain and I snap, "I think you cheated on that test." I pause, " And even if you didn't, intelligence isn't everything."

A small smile quirks his lips. "You're right. Looks count as well, and since I'm devilishly handsome _and_ intelligent, I have the full package."

I give an exaggerated sigh of impatience. "We've talked about you deluding yourself into thinking you're good looking, haven't we?"

"Well," Fang says, "I think you're deluding yourself into thinking that I'm _not _handsome. Just admit it, you find me _very_ attractive."

"I find you _very_ annoying."

"You find me _very_ funny."

"Only when I look at _that_," I say, pointing to his face. "You're a pain in the ass."

"You want to _touch_ my ass."

"I _hate_ you."

"You _love_ me."

I throw my arms up in the air, exasperated. "_Again_ with the delusions?" I sling my bag over my shoulder, picking up my half-eaten burger. "I'm going," I say, turning my back on him.

"Not far," he calls. "I'll see you in class next."

I roll my eyes, smiling. Everything is back to normal…for now.


	14. Ambiguity

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

_An extract from Chapter 12 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha quickly fixes her hair into a ponytail as she rushes into the bar, twenty-five minutes late. Her manager, Bob, is behind the bar, a frown marring his forehead. His arms are crossed and she's never seen him looking this aggravated before. She gulps._

"_I'm so sorry," Samantha apologises. All she ever seems to be doing these days is saying sorry for this and that, concocting excuses that they both know aren't exactly true: _I missed the bus again; traffic was terrible again; I forgot I was working today. _But how could she tell him the truth?_

"_This continuous tardiness is unacceptable, Samantha," he gruffly scolds. "Is something wrong at home?"_

_She shakes her head. "No." _Yes.

_His features soften. "Are you sure?"_

"_Yeah, everything is just fine." _Nothing's fine. Everything is just wrong, wrong, wrong.

_He nods his head, the frown creasing its way back onto his forehead. "I want you on time tomorrow. Because if this continues, I'm gonna have to let you go, and I really don't want to do that. So _please_…make more of an effort to get here on time."_

_Bob leaves her at the bar, entering the kitchen. Samantha sighs and rests her elbows on the bar, burying her face in her hands._

"_What's wrong?"_

_She jumps at the voice, turning round sharply, coming face to face with David. She doesn't want to speak to him: not now, or anyone else, for that matter. She just wants to sink into a corner and cry._

"_Nothing," she snaps, "shouldn't you be chopping carrots or something?"_

"_I'm on my break," he replies, voice flat. He comes to stand beside her and places a comforting hand on her shoulder._

"_Samantha, what's wrong? I heard you talking to Bob before about your recent tardiness."_

_She snorts, violently shrugging his hand off, rounding on him. "Oh, so you eavesdrop now, do you?"_

_He doesn't say anything, continuing to look at her impassively. She's angry, not so much with him, but more so at the torrent of emotions that have been welling up inside of her. The dam she'd built to hold them back is ready to collapse, and there is nothing she can do to stop the outburst._

"_And why should I tell _you_, of all people? I don't know you, not really. Because whenever I ask you simple questions like, _what made you change jobs?_ You just answer with some nonsensical reply. So you can't really blame me for not wanting to tell you anything when you won't even extend that simple courtesy to me."_

_His face still remains reticent and it eggs her on even more. She wants him to react; she wants him to argue back with her. She's aware of the attention she's attracting from nosy customers, but can no longer care._

"_You wouldn't understand 'what's wrong'. You've probably always had whatever you wanted, right? Seeing as you have rich parents, an' all." _He'd previously unintentionally let slip that his father is a successful entrepreneur, the family having come from money anyway, and that he'd attended Harvard. She hadn't really needed her theory of his heritage to be verified: his clothes and refined manner just boast money.

_Samantha continues: "You've never had to deal with adversity in your life. You don't have bills to pay or family to look after. Your kind wouldn't understand."_

_She's breathing hard when she finishes her rant, fists curled at her sides. She meets his steady gaze, surprised to see hurt in his eyes. Guilt instantly stabs at her: she shouldn't have yelled at him life that, but she'd just been unable to stop herself._

_She wants him to take her in his arms, uttering soothing words as she cries into his shirt, letting herself go. She wants to tell him everything: she wants to tell him how she's struggling to pay for her father's medical bills and that College is surely out of the question now. She wants to tell him how her mother has been on a drinking binge every night for the past fortnight when she should have been at home with her son and Samantha's ten-year old brother, Jake. Samantha doesn't like leaving him on his own for hours on end when she's at work, but what else can she do? The neighbours are already beginning to become suspect that something is wrong at home, what with all the late night arguments Samantha and her Mom get into when she's finally returned home, a surly drunk._

_Time seems to hold an insurmountable amount of weight as she waits for him to say something…_anything_. "You'd be surprised what I'd understand," he says quietly. "You think my life is all flowers and roses? You're wrong."_

_He shakes his head, despondent. "Nothing is ever as it seems."_

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, making sure no more locks have escaped the tight bun Ella has secured my unruly locks in.

"Hold on, Max," Nudge says, coming towards me. They have been my 'makeup team' for the evening, insisting they dress me up for the fancy, swanky dinner party the quintet has been invited to play at. She carefully pulls out a few strands of hair that frame my face. She steps back beside Ella, hand cupping her chin, frowning. But then the frown turns to a smile and she nods. "I think we're finished," she reports, and then, "Oh my God, Fang won't be able to take his eyes off you! You look beautiful and…" Ella places a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Nudge's eyes avert to Ella, the hand still covering her mouth. Ella gives an imperceptible shake of the head. _What was that about? What had she said about Fang?_

I frown. "Nudge, my boyfriend is Sam, not Fang."

Ella removes her hand. "Oh, well…yeah," Nudge says, "_Sam _won't be able to take his eyes off you. That's what I meant."

I'm still frowning and fix them both with a hard look. _Why would they think Fang and I are together? "_Sam won't be playing there because he broke his hand. He won't see me," I report, "that's why Fang's playing with us: he's filling in for Sam."

"I think," Ella begins, "Nudge just got confused. She saw you the other day at the Library with Fang, and I'd mentioned you had a boyfriend so…"

Nudge interrupts: "I just put two and two together: you seemed quite close together so I thought you'd both confessed your undying love for one another and…"

Ella places a hand on Nudge's mouth again. Wow: did she stop for breath there?

"We were at the Library," I say, "_together_, because we have been assigned to do a project _together_ by Mr. Smith. Pigs will fly before Fang and I ever get together."

Nudge gives a sheepish smile.

"Here, Max," Ella says, handing me a cropped, black cardigan. I put it on, fully assessing my attire in the full-length mirror. I thought I'd reached my quota of dresses for a lifetime, but once again, I find myself looking in the mirror, looking at this girl in a dress. I suppose it could be worse: they could have made me wear heals, but I'd provided the argument that using the peddle on the piano would be difficult to use otherwise. The dress is also black and plain, reaching just above me knees. A simple, silver necklace adorns my neck. Makeup accentuates my 'chocolate-coloured' eyes, a thin sheen of lip gloss coating my lips.

"Thanks, guys," I say. "I'm gonna have to go. See you later."

* * *

I knock on Fang's door _again,_ hoping someone will answer, and soon. It's cold, and I'm shivering in a thin cardigan: winter is well on its way. He has no transport at the moment, so me, being the oh so generous person I am, has agreed to give him a lift. Magnanimous Max, that's me.

I frown as I look up at the open window above me: rock music blares loudly from the room. It's no wonder no one could hear me knocking, it's so freaking loud!

When the door finally opens, I expect to see Fang, only to look down and see Angel instead with her dog, Total, in her arms.

"Hey, Max," she chirps. "Iggy's playing his music really loud again and Fang's on the phone to Mommy, so they didn't hear the door." She glances behind her shoulder and looks back at me, downcast. "I think Fang's mad at Mommy."

I can just barely discern Fang's voice over the blaring music: sometimes speaking in a low murmured voice, but more than not, shouting, "Come _home_. You have to stop doing this…It's not fair." He pauses. I can see him through the gap in the door. He hasn't spotted me yet: he's too busy glaring at the floor, his fist clenched. "Oh for…"

He stops mid rant, his eyes having flicked to the open door. He turns round sharply, his back to me, and walks into the kitchen. I can't hear him at all now. _What the hell was all that about?_

"They argue a lot," Angel says.

"Really?" I say.

"Yeah." She frowns. "Mom never comes home until really, _really_ late. She wakes me up when she comes home and I can't get back to sleep until much, _much _later, 'cause she and Fang begin arguing then."

I crouch down to her level. "What do they argue about?"

She shrugs. "Fang just says it's nothing and I shouldn't worry about it, but I can't help it sometimes. When I ask why Mom's home late, he just says she has to work late at her new job."

I force a smile onto my lips, trying to reassure her. "I'm sure Fang's right and it's nothing. Your Mom just works late so she can provide for you guys. I've seen how much Fang eats! Your food bill must be enormous!"

Total struggles in Angel's arm and jumps from out of her grasp, running circles round me. Ok, that might get just a little annoying.

Angel giggles and wraps her skinny arms around my neck, hugging me. "Thanks, Max."

I pat her small blond head and she releases me. Fang now stands behind her, violin case and music in hand, a small smile quirking his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes though: he must still be reeling from the tense conversation with his Mom. I start for a moment, taking him in: he's wearing a tux that fits nicely on his well-formed body. He looks good. _Really_ good.

"Just give me a second," he says, stepping back into the hall. He shouts: "Iggy, will you turn that music down! We'll be getting complaints from the neighbours soon."

The volume drops down a few decibels, but it's still clearly audible even outside. Fang comes back shaking his head, his eyes red and bloodshot, as if he hasn't slept much of late.

He crouches down to Angel's level and gives her a one armed hug that she eagerly reciprocates.

"Is Iggy still refusing to leave his room?" she asks, worry tingeing her tone.

"Yeah. I'm sure it's just some teen phase. He'll grow out of it soon," Fang replies, straightening up. He'd placated her worries in such a light and indifferent tone, that I suspect his words had not solely been for Angel's sake, but also to reassure himself. I try to catch his eye, but he seems obstinate about not meeting my gaze.

"Mrs. McKenzie will be here in a second to look after you," he tells her.

Angel scrunches up her nose, frowning. "I don't like her," she grumbles, "she smells."

"That's not very nice."

"Well…she does. And she doesn't like us since Gazzy set that stink bomb off. She tells us to just sit down and be quiet."

"It won't be for long. I'll be back before you know it."

"Can't I come with you? I wanna hear you and Max play."

He shakes his head. "Not this time, sweetie."

He straightens up and looks over my shoulder. "Mrs. McKenzie's here. I'll see you tomorrow morning, ok?"

"Ok," she grumbles. "Bye, Max."

I smile. "See you, Angel."

"Nick!" A shrill voice cries. Mrs. McKenzie jogs up the drive, knitting needles sticking out of a large expansive bag. Total begins yapping then, bounding down the drive to greet her. Or is trying to ward her off?

Mrs. McKenzie looks to be about in her mid-50s: her grey hair is fixed in a tight bun, her lips red and her eyes layered with heavy makeup. Her attire, a long flowing dress, befitted someone who is to attend the opera, and _not_ someone who is about to babysit a couple of kids. Total's teeth latch onto the end of her dress, pulling and tugging, growling as he does so.

"Get off, you stupid mutt," she yells. Angel gently tugs him away, shooting dagger-like glares at Mrs. McKenzie.

Suddenly, when Mrs. McKenzie has checked the state of her attire, she looks to me, blinking, as if she's just noticed my presence. "Hello. Who are you?"

"Max," I introduce.

She smiles, clasping her ringed fingered hands together. "It's about time Nick got a girlfriend. He's way too handsome to remain single."

"Oh, no," I say, blushing. "I'm not his girlfriend."

I look to Fang and note the colour in his cheeks. He's biting his lip. This is..._awkward._

"Oh," Mrs. McKenzie says.

"We better get going," Fang remarks quickly, "otherwise we're gonna be late." He glances at his watch, his eyes locking back on Mrs. McKenzie. "Iggy's upstairs listening to Music. I've told him to keep it down, but if it's too disrupting, don't hesitate to tell him to turn it down. Gazzy's in his room also. All stink bombs have been confiscated, so there shouldn't be a repeat of last time."

She purses her lips. "Good. The smell had been so foul, I was practically _heaving _when he'd set it off. Kids shouldn't be playing with such stupid contraptions: I seriously worry for the next generation."

"Right," Fang absentmindedly replies. "Bye. Be good, Ange."

"Bye, Fang. Bye, Max."

I wrap my arms around myself for warmth as we jog over to my car. I can feel Fang's eyes on me all the way, and I can feel them on me when we get into the car. I turn to him, surprised to see the warmth that radiates from them, and then surprised to see him leaning towards me. Something flares inside his eyes, their colour dimmed by the feeble light in the car. It's 6 o'clock and already the sun is setting behind dark clouds, the light of the day being displaced by the pervading darkness of the night.

I suck in a breath. His hand moves a lock of hair that has flopped in front of my face, slipping it behind my ear. He inadvertently brushes my cheek during this movement, causing a blush to blossom on my cheeks. His eyes lock with mine, swimming with that same emotion I've glinted before. "You look nice."

He pulls back, suddenly and sharply, looking out the window. I fluster for a moment, starting the engine and then looking in my rear view mirror. "You don't scrub up that bad either."

He chuckles. "'Not bad' is an understatement. All the women won't be able to keep their eyes off me."

"You're_ totally delusional_," I sing, pulling out of the driveway.

"Totally hot."

"Totally not."

I turn my CD player on, deciding to drown out his egotistical remarks. I turn the volume up, Nickelback's Gotta Be Somebody blaring through the speakers. Fang taps his hand to along to the music on his leg, humming. I look over at him, smirking, my eyebrows raised. He meets my eyes and asks, "Have you ever wondered about putting together a quintet version of this?"

I frown. "No, why? Have you?"

"Yeah. I just thought it might be fun to do, y'know? We're playing at a couple of school's in a month's time, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Most kids aren't interested in Bach and Vivaldi. They think it's boring."

I'm about to protest but he interrupts: "It's true, Max. A lot say they hate orchestral instruments. If you want to make them think it's cool and encourage them to play classical instruments, you have to play music _they_ like first."

Ok, so maybe he had a point, and maybe doing an arrangement of Nickelback wouldn't be so bad. In fact, it would be pretty damn cool. "We could ask the guys," I say, "and see what they think." I don't have to turn to the side to know he's smirking: he knows he's brought me round entirely.

I change the subject: "Is Iggy ok?"

"He's fine. He's just being a moody teenager."

"Is that just it?" I ask, persisting. "'Cause losing your sight is a pretty big deal. And then there's your dad leaving…"

"We're doing fine!"

I don't speak for several minutes, startled at his sudden outburst. Quietly I say: "If you ever want to talk, you know where I am."

* * *

"Where have you been?" Dylan demands as he greets us at the door. We're twenty minutes late, having taken the wrong turn several times before I realised my mistake.

"Max got lost," Fang, oh so helpfully replies.

"You were in charge of the map," I remind Fang, "so technically, this is all your…"

"Ok!" Dylan snaps. "Just hurry up. Fang, you need to tune your violin as soon as you can. The guy hosting the party keeps nagging at me, asking me when we're going to start."

My eyes roam round the expansive hall as I settle myself behind the grand piano. Oil paintings are secured in thick gold frames across the room, divided by wide, oval shaped windows that are partially hidden behind great red curtains. Men and women are dressed in their best clothes: tuxes and long flowing dresses, seating themselves at tables with neatly placed name cards. Everything is immaculate: I just hope we cN deliver, although, I'm not sure if they'll really hear us amongst all the chitter chatter and clunking of cutlery and clinking glasses.

I smile at Phil and JJ, checking which pieces we're playing first. I won't be accompanying all of the time: some of their pieces being solely for strings. Since Sam would have been a spare part coming here and unable to play, he's stayed at home, having text me earlier to wish me luck and that he wishes he could be playing with us tonight. I'd text back thanks and that I'll see him soon.

Torrents of nerves suddenly rush through me, and I'm praying I don't suddenly mess up and make a complete fool of myself. It's easier to disguise mistakes on a violin, but a piano…if you press the wrong key, you'll play totally the wrong note and will discord with the other notes you're playing, _and_ that of the other players. I'll stand out like a sore thumb.

As Fang takes his place beside JJ, he gives me a small smile and winks at me. He meets the eyes of Phil, JJ and Dylan before locking with mine again, nodding his head: _we're ready to play._

I begin the piano's introduction, my previous worries ebbing away as I immerse myself in the music completely.

I sit smiling behind piano, listening to the guys playing their last piece, mildly jealous that my part in our suite had finally come to an end. I'd really enjoyed playing on the grand piano: I want to take it home with me; it's just _so _nice to play on. Unfortunately, our small dainty house will not accommodate such an expansive instrument, it barely housing our much smaller, upright piano as it is.

I watch Fang's fingers travelling up and down the neck of the violin, deftly shifting positions. His bow transcends from short, snappy movement to the longer, more flowing movement of legato: another smooth transition. The upper part of his body begins to gradually move as the piece picks up momentum again, a frown forming on his forehead as he completes a series of complex notes. I've noticed he does that whenever he hits a particularly difficult section in the music. It's kinda cute.

The last note is played and there's a round of applause. I don't anticipate it and am surprised to find all eyes on us: throughout most of the evening all the guests had been idly chatting, eating, and occasionally, taking part in the odd toast. I hadn't thought many had registered our presence in the corner.

I grin broadly as I bow with the rest of the guys, Phil even blowing kisses, until JJ punches him in the arm. _Ouch._

I could get used to this whole performing thing.

**I hope this chapter was able to show other ambiguous elements in the story. The idea of 'not everything is as it seems', as David states in the extract, was meant to be a theme not solely applicable to Max and Fang's relationship. I hope I didn't show it in a confusing way.**

**Any kind of feedback is welcome – I'm hard, I can take criticism. Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	15. Ambiguity Continued

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Thanks so much for the encouraging reviews!**

"We totally rocked last Friday!" Phil cries. He's literally jumping up and down, playing an air cello. _Oh Phil, what are we going to do with you?_

I note Sam tucked away in the corner looking dejected. I know it's hard for him seeing us so ecstatic about a performance he himself had arranged and had been so looking forward to doing. The violin was a substantial part of his daily schedule, and now, all he can do is wait for his hand to heal. He realises I'm staring at him, concern evident in my features, and stands up, coming over towards me.

"Hey," he says. I'd called him the day after the performance to let him know that everything had went well and that I'll have to unfortunately cancel our plans for Sunday. Fang and I are limited as to when we can work on our project, both feeling we'll struggle to finish it in the time set anyway, so could we please reschedule for another time? He'd agreed, but the despondency had been all too evident in his voice. I'd felt bad and still do, but college came first, right?

"How was your weekend?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Ok, I suppose. I missed you."

I can hear Fang fake gagging from across the room where he's unpacking his violin. I shoot him a look and he meets my eyes, mouthing _wiener._ I roll my eyes. "Oh," I say, suddenly remembering Fang's idea from last week, "Fang has an idea to run by you all in regards to what we're play at the schools."

"We'd already decided that," Sam says reproachfully.

"We're not going to engage 14 year-olds with Mozart," Fang states, "We'll put them to sleep."

"Then what would _you_ suggest, Mr. I-know-everything?"

"We do quintet versions of songs from bands like Nickelback, Paramour, Linkin Park…stuff like that. We play what _they _listen to, and hopefully, we'll encourage them to take up an orchestral instrument."

In unison Sam cries, "That's stupid," while JJ exclaims, "That's brilliant!"

"I'm up for it," Phil says, carefully placing his cello on the floor before going over to Fang, giving him a high five. "Don't get me wrong, I like Bach like the last Baroque fanatic, but you'd be combining two brilliant things here: string instruments and rock music. We're gonna be epic, man."

We all turn to Dylan then. He's the only one not to have voiced his opinions yet, all save me. "I think," Dylan begins, pausing for dramatic affect, "that we should do it. It'd be fun."

"And who's going to write these arrangements then?" Sam demands, still not totally convinced. _Come on, Sam._

"I will," Fang states.

"Sam," I say, waiting for him to look at me, "we could at least give it a go. I think it's a really good idea and if we do pull it off, the kids will really enjoy it. Fang's right: they'll switch off if we start playing the music _we_ love."

"We can still play some Bach and Vivaldi," Fang adds, "but we've got to mix it up a bit."

Sam's outnumbered five to one: we're doing this whether he agrees or not. But fortunately, he nods, albeit grudgingly.

* * *

After practice, Fang and I drive back to his house after picking up the kids, intent on continuing with our project. I'm really not looking forward to speaking in front of our class, a compulsory element of our project, but knew, due to past experiences with debates and alike at school, that once I begin, I'll get into my stride and have no problem. I know Fang will be fine. Yes, he appears mute to most, but he can be quite charismatic when he wants to be.

"Here you go, Max," Gazzy says, handing me a glass of orange juice.

I smile. _He's such a sweet kid. Can't I trade Ella for him or Angel? _"Thanks a lot, Gazzy. At least some people treat their guests nicely," I say, directing my last comment at Fang.

Fang frowns and leans in closer from the seat he'd taken next to me. _For God's sake Max, whatever you do, don't blush!_

"What exactly are you insinuating?" he asks.

"Just that your hospitality could use a bit of work."

Angel comes and plops herself in the seat opposite me then, pushing some of our many research sheets forward to make room for a plate of cookies. "She's got a point, Fang. You should always ask a guest whether they want a drink."

Fang frowns, his lips quirking upwards ever so slightly: he's amused at this turn of events. "Is this pick on Fang day?"

"Yes," I reply, "just like every day is."

Angel giggles while Gazzy smirks mischievously. I thought I'd smelt something odious before: _eeew, Gazzy._ Fang slumps forward, resting his head in his hands, giving an exaggerated sigh.

"My party's next week," Angel says, "will you come Max?"

Fang perks up at this, hope glinting in his eyes. "Could you?" he asks, "I'll be on my own and there'll be about twelve screaming girls. Originally, Mom was going to be here to help, but I don't think she'll be able to now, and I don't think I could manage on my own."

They all look at me hopefully, Fang's eyes pleading. "Sure," I say. "Just let me know date and times."

Fang smiles, relieved, and mouths _thank you._

"Yay!" Angel cries. "It's gonna be great. Fang's hired a magician and there's gonna be a pink cake and…"

* * *

"Ugh," I groan as I rest me head on the backs of my hand, lying half across the table. My brain is fried…literally. We'd been working for how long? I look up, glancing at the clock that hangs above the fireplace. It reads: 6:30. Ok, so perhaps we'd only been researching for the last three hours, but the Canterbury tales is _really_ hard to decipher. It's interesting, don't get me wrong, but the amount of brainpower required…I just don't have it in me at the moment.

I look to Fang, who regards me with a small smirk, his eyes conveying his amusement. As with most things Fang tackles, he does so with ease and a deftness that had easily earned him the title of Valedictorian at school. _Smarty-pants._

He's about to comment when the door suddenly swings open, smacking against the wall.

"Iggy?" Fang calls, bolting out of his chair and into the hall. I follow him.

The lanky figure of Iggy stomps up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Fang charges after him, banging on his door, demanding that he open it right this second. I stand at the bottom of the stairs, watching as he tries the door handle. No luck: it's locked.

"Will you let me in," Fang demands. "What's wrong? Will you just talk to me for once…just open the…Iggy, will you just open the door…for God's sake just…" He stops mid-plea, giving up, and leans his head against the door in despair. "We'll talk later, Iggy," he promises.

I shrink back into the living room, waiting for him to come back down. _What's going on?_

Fang walks straight past me and sits at the table, sifting through our work, looking anywhere but at me. "What's going on? Is he ok?" I ask.

He refuses to look at me, pretending to be reading something on a sheet. "How am I supposed to know? He won't talk to me, he hardly speaks to anyone anymore. Or if he does, all he does is shout or make some snarky remark." He'd practically shouted his response at me, eyed focused on the papers in his hand as he'd done so. I don't reprimand him for speaking to me like that. I don't say anything. He's worried about his brother and he doesn't know what to do: I'll give him a break. "As if I don't have enough problems," he says softly. I almost don't catch the quiet utterance, but I do, although I'm fairly sure I wasn't supposed to.

He rubs a hand across his face, and when he removes it, I can see how weary he is, worry congealing in his dark eyes. I'm not used to all this sappy emotion stuff, but I don't like seeing him so crestfallen and frustrated and lost.

I move my seat closer to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. And when he doesn't shrug it off, I move my arm around his shoulders, giving them a small squeeze, trying to reassure him.

"Is everything ok, Fang?" I ask. "I mean, not just with Iggy, 'cause Angel mentioned the other day that you argue with your Mom a lot recently."

He shrugs my arm off and stands up, fumbling with the papers once again. "We're fine."

I stand up also, barely keeping a tenuous grasp on my patience. "A lot's happened to your family recently, so it wouldn't be surprising…"

"Families argue, Max. Fact. You telling me you never argue with your Mom? Iggy's a teenager, he's just being moody. He'll perk up in the next few days. You don't need to worry."

I frown because I know he's concealing the truth. He's being too defensive for there _not_ to be something wrong: he's keeping something from me, but what?

"I was only trying to help…"

"Thanks for your concern, but we don't need any help," he interrupts.

"Fine," I say curtly, "I'll see you tomorrow then." I gather up my stuff quickly, literally shoving my papers inside my bag. He doesn't see me to the door like he usually does, he just pretends he's reading through some papers.

We'll do it his way…for now. But I'll find out what's wrong in the end.

* * *

_An extract from Chapter 13 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha rushed into work again, this time, just five minutes late for her afternoon shift. She casts a swift glance round the room: no Bob. She's in the clear._

_She takes a moment to catch her breath, having ran all the way to the bar from the bus stop. She hadn't had to deal with a drunken mother returning late this morning, as she hadn't yet returned by the time Samantha had left for work. Samantha's worried, yes, but the growing resentment she feels towards her mother since her excessive drinking is gradually eroding her sympathy. She believes her mother needs to harden up because bad things happen (her father's Alzheimer's) and she isn't the only one suffering. Perhaps it's a crude assessment, but she's had enough._

_She notes David in one of the booths, finding his empty glass very interesting, turning it this way and that. She suspects he'd seen her enter, but didn't want to catch her eye. Usually he'd greet her warmly before making some witty remark, in which she'd easily fire back with one of her own retorts. Today isn't going to be one of those days, however. Tension still hangs thickly between them from yesterday's argument. She doesn't like it, so she's resolved to fix it._

"_Hey," Samantha says, sliding into the seat opposite David._

_His eyes flit to hers briefly before locking back on the glass. "Hey."_

"_About yesterday…"_

"_Yes," he prompts, Samantha having now captured his attention completely. He puts down the glass, his dark eyes locking with hers._

"_I'm sorry," she says, "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I know you were only trying to help."_

"_No, you shouldn't have," he agrees, "especially since I'm such a nice and kind person." His face remains passive, unreadable. She's surprised at how desperate she is for him to forgive her: she doesn't want him angry with her, or thinking any less of her._

_And then he gives her a lopsided smile and she knows everything is going to be ok between them. He says: "I suppose I can forgive you…but on one condition."_

_She groans, inwardly thrilled that he's forgiven her so easily, especially since she didn't think she deserved it, but is rather apprehensive at this 'but'._

"_What's the deal?" she asks wearily._

_He smiles, eyes shining with amusement. "You go on a date with me."_

_She rolls her eyes. He'd already asked her out…several times, and she'd said no to each and every one of his requests. So why would she amend her answer now?_

"_You owe me," he says. Oh yeah, _that_. But still?_

"David_," she groans._

"Samantha_," he says, imitating her tone._

_She frowns, and he mirrors her facial expression. Rolling her eyes once more at his childish actions, she gets up and heads to the bar. She'd kept an eye out while sitting at the booth for customers lingering there, but there had been none._

"_I thought we'd be able to talk," he says, casually leaning against the bar._

"_We talk all the time," she says. "In fact_, you_," she points at him, "talk_ too_ much."_

_He fixes her with a look of mock hurt, his hand over his heart._

"_About what?" she asks reproachfully, suddenly serious._

"_Me, of course."_

_He grins at her and she can't help but smile in response. He has an odd ability of being both charming and utterly annoying at the same time: a paradoxical combination, but the essence of David nonetheless._

"_You said yesterday we don't know each other very well, and you're right, so I want to fix that, " he continues. When she doesn't respond he adds, "I'm not beneath using blackmail, either, so…"_

_She holds up her hands in surrender. She can't believe she's going to say this, but…_

"_Ok," she agrees, holding up one finger, "one date. But that's it."_

"_Great!" He's smiling broadly and she finds it difficult to suppress her own smile._

When I see Fang the next day in class, neither one of us mentions the tense conversation from the day before. There is nothing to say until he's ready to divulge what's wrong.

We walk to the music department in silence. He seems distracted, but I decide I'm not going to pry…just yet.

"I've done a couple of Nickelback arrangements," Fang says, as he unpacks his violin. "I thought maybe we could give them a look over. See if they're ok. If they don't work, be honest. This composition thing is a little new to me."

He hands round the music sheets, while Sam sits brooding in the corner. I look at my part: it seems simple enough, and it would be interesting to see how the other string parts would interact with each other.

"Can we try Gotta Be Somebody first?" Fang asks. **(A/N for a better idea of this version, check out the Vitamin String Quartet's Gotta Be Somebody on youtube)**

Both JJ and Fang begin with long flowing bows on the violin, accompanied by Phil with shorter, snappier movements on the cello. The piece reaches its stride when Dylan also enters, his bowing movements much like Phil's in a staccato-like fashion. My part is mostly chords that are found more throughout the verses. Each string part complimented the other, producing a harmonious piece that sounds just awesome. Damn, Fang had done a good job. I don't think I'd ever be able to produce something like this: there are just too many elements; too many instruments to think about when composing such a piece. _Why does he have to be good at everything?_

Phil beams at Fang when we finish the first run-through. "Dude," he exclaims, "you're a genius. We're so playing this at the schools. What's next?"

* * *

_An extract from Chapter 14 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha remains in high spirits throughout the day. It will be good to get out the house, she decide, even if it is just for an hour or two to go out with David for dinner. He'd offered to come and pick her up at her house if she wanted to get changed after work, but she'd said she wouldn't mind just going out straight after her shift. Her younger brother, Jake, will be at a sleep over tonight, so she won't have to rush back home like she usually does._

_She wipes over the bar with a newly found vigour, eyes flicking towards the clock every now and then. Today is going so slow, she thinks. She wonders where David will take her, because even after her persistent requests, he'd refused to give anything away, wanting to keep it a 'surprise'._

_The front doors are flung open suddenly, slamming against the wall. Samantha jumps, as do all the customers. Then there are the slurred words of a drunk and Bob's at the door instantly, encouraging the drunkard to leave the premises immediately. Samantha's frozen in place because she knows the voice and she prays the drunk will just leave. But they don't, of course, instead cursing and swearing and crying, "Let me go! I'm here to see my daughter, she'll let me in."_

_Samantha can hear the scuffling; she can hear the less-than-patient requests from Bob for her to leave before the police are called. But what she doesn't hear is the quiet tread of David as he comes up behind her. He says: "Great, just another drunk making a complete fool of themselves. I can't believe the scum we get in here sometimes."_

_She doesn't reply, because her drunken mother's next words prevent her. "Samantha! Samantha, are you there? It's your Mom. Tell this brute to get their hands off me."_


	16. Birthday Parties and Secrets Revealed

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

"Hey!" I duck from out of Fang's reach. His eyes have that evil glint in them, his lips turning upwards in a wicked grin. _Oh, no._

Cupped in his hand is flour. I know what he's going to do with it: flick it at me, much like I did to him when he'd made some sexist pig remark during our cake baking. It's the day of Angel's birthday party, and me being the oh so generous person I am, had agreed to help him bake her cake. But since I don't want to end up like Fang with flour all in my hair and over my shirt (it is kinda funny, because I can't remember the last time I'd seen him in anything but black), I run. Or I try to...

I get just half way into the living room before I feel his ropy hands grasp onto the upper part of my arms, dragging me back. I squirm and twist, trying to break free from his grip. But it's no use when his arms encircle me completely, pinning mine beneath his. _Damn._

Suddenly his mouth is near my ear and he whispers: "Just give up, Max. I've won."

"_Never_," I cry, stepping back onto his foot. He loosens his grip, cursing in surprise (and pain?), giving me time to break free. I lunge forward, but Fang's hand soon wraps around my arm again, pulling me back. Only this time, I'm not expecting to be tugged back so sharply or so suddenly, and fall back, dropping onto the floor. Fang's also dragged back (totally his fault), and falls down beside me.

I lie back and groan. Let me tell you, wooden floors _hurt_ if you fall on them. A lot.

"_Ouch_," I complain. "Was that really necessary?"

"Was it really necessary for you to flick flour in my face?"

I consider it for a second. "Touché."

He stands up and offers me a hand. I take it, not expecting him to pull me up so suddenly or with such force that I stumble forward, inadvertently colliding with his firm chest. His hands close around my waist, steadying me. I look up, his eyes flaring with warmth, their golden flecks more prominent now, his eyelashes more distinguishable now. He's leaning closer.

My breath catches in my throat, my heart's beating at a cantered rhythm.

"Max," he says softly, " I…"

"_Fang?" _I blink, startled. Angel's voice is accompanied by her presence in the doorway.

I jerk back from Fang as if stung, almost stumbling back again. She appears indifferent to Fang and mine's previous close proximity, her attention solely focused on the squirming Total in her arms.

"When will my friends be here?" she asks, patting down Total's fur, fixing the blue bow she'd tied around his collar.

Fang glances at his watch, his eyes widening infinitesimally. "Ten minutes!"

"Ok," Angel says, "thanks." She walks back out the room, her light footsteps just distinguishable as she walks up the stairs.

"Max," Fang says, his voice urgent and panicked, "help me set the food on the table."

He rushes into the kitchen, rushing out with plates of sausage rolls, handing them to me. We go back in forth into the kitchen until everything's set. The 7th Birthday banner had already been hung, the balloons already blown up and scattered across the room. We're all set.

Fang's violin is situated in the corner of the room, positioned on the stand. I don't think it was a good place for a delicate instrument when a bunch of kids would soon be running around, hyped up on sugar and whatnot. I take a closer look at the violin. It's antique, well kept, with only a few minor cracks inflicted from age and use. Scrutinising it closer, I realise there are fine engravings just under the chin rest. It's an ornate pattern I'd never detected before. I regard the bow next, noting how it is also more ornate then I'd first realised.

"Fang?"

He peeps his head from out of the kitchen, cake mixture smudged at the side of his face.

I smile, giving a short chuckle. As he frowns, I can't suppress the idle thought that flits into mind as to how cute he looks like that.

I point to his smudged cheek, his finger coming away with the gooey mixture.

"I think you should pack your violin up," I say, jerking my thumb at the violin. "I'd hate to see it get damaged, it's a beautiful instrument. I've never seen anything quite like it before." Ok, I'm no expect on string instruments, but when violin searching with Ella and having been in numerous music shops over the years, have never come across anything so delicately or articulately decorated.

He takes my advice and picks the violin and bow up. "It was my Gran's." He plucks a few notes on the strings, a small smile alighting on his face. "She taught me how to play. She was an _amazing_ violinist."

I'm only too well aware of the "was", already anticipating what he'll say next.

"She died this March," he continues. There had been warmth in his voice when he'd previously spoken of her, only to be superseded by the dull monotone he usual adopts: the mask of stolidity he so often wore is back in place.

The strange compulsion to hug him and make him feel better suddenly overrides my movements, and I do, sort of, coming over to him, patting his arm. I offer him a small smile, only to be met by eyes brimming with moisture. He looks away suddenly, towards the ground, blinking rapidly. I've never seen him like this: I've never seen him looking so hurt. His Gran had meant a lot to him.

The doorbell rings suddenly and Angel can be heard bolting down the stairs.

"Why don't you put them upstairs?" I suggest, indicating the violin and bow, "while I answer the door."

He nods imperceptibly, his expression schooled, as if a knight's visor has erased all the emotion that had previously been brimming in his eyes.

I answer the door with Angel practically jumping up and down beside me, poor Total jostling in her arms. I'm met by an assault of six and seven year olds who are just as bubbly.

_Oh boy, this is going to be an eventful party._

* * *

_An extract from Chapter 15 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha wishes she were in a nightmare so that she can wake up, and soon. Because if this were a dream, then she wouldn't really be in the back of David's car with a drunken mother, who'd relentlessly been shouting abuse since Samantha had buckled her in. Well, actually, there had been some reprieve from her facetious tongue: when she was throwing up all over David's leather seats._

_After her mother had refused to leave, Bob had turned to Samantha, sympathetic, the puzzle pieces as to her recent tardiness suddenly fitting into place. But she doesn't want pity and she doesn't want sympathy. What she really wants is a sober mother, but that hasn't been so for almost two years, even after Samantha's persistence to get her help, practically shoving her through the doors of help groups. All had failed and yet Samantha still persisted. Her mother's addiction stemmed from her father's Alzheimer's. Her father's disease can't be cured, so does that mean there's no cure for her mother?_

"_For the last time," her mother shouts, "I'm not drunk! Will you stop telling me I am? I only had one glass of wine."_

"_More like a bottle," Samantha bitterly retorts, shrinking away from her mother, the rank stench of alcohol and sick on her breath._

_David catches her eye in the front mirror._

_Samantha looks away quickly, ashamed._

_After David had discovered she had no other means of getting home save the bus, he'd offered to give her a lift back straight away. Initially she'd declined, but Bob had convinced her, stating she should get her mother home as soon as possible, and surely the bus driver wouldn't let her mother on in the state she's in?_

_The car comes to a stop and Samantha's slowly deteriorating terraced house comes into view. The lawn is infested with weeds, some slate tiles missing off the roof, and everything is worn out and needing repair._

_David gets out and comes to open her mother's car door, helping her out. She stumbles, swaying, clinging onto his arms._

_If a black hole were to swallow Samantha up right this second, she wouldn't be complaining._

_Samantha doesn't invite David inside their home; she doesn't want him to see the mess. It isn't grossly unclean, but there's a pile of washing on a chair, books and papers scattered everywhere. She also hadn't dusted this week…yet._

_She settles her mother onto the settee, who sits with no fuss, in seconds snoring away._

_Samantha goes back outside, noting how David is leaning back against the car. The car is new and expensive. It's strange seeing him in this impoverished neigbourhood, she thinks, as he's an anomaly. David being rich and seemingly elegant in manner and positively pristine, compared to herself and her home; poorer by day and needing help. Only they both know she'll never ask for it: she's too proud, too stubborn._

"_Thanks for the lift," Samantha says, looking anywhere but at him._

_David doesn't respond to her thanks, he has other burning questions. "Has this happened before? Does your mother drink a lot?"_

"_Define 'a lot'."_

_He rolls his eyes, annoyed at her evasiveness, but more so at himself for not realising something was wrong sooner. She'd come to work tired all the time, receiving phone calls that would force her to leave work unexpectedly early or in secret, if Bob would not allow her more time off. David had asked her whether everything was ok, but she'd just deflect the questions and ask him one's in return, which he'd in turn felt just as uncomfortable answering. In truth, he'd done just what she had: deflecting the questions and concealing the truth._

_He kept secrets just like her. But perhaps it's time for the truth to come out...perhaps it's time to tell her everything._

* * *

I stand at the back of the room with Fang, watching as the kids gape and hang on every word of the magician as he asks them for the magic words. He tells them that if they chant the right word, then he'll be able to magically pull a rabbit from out of his hat.

Fang had hired your stereotypical magician: black cloak and hat with wand in hand. He's middle aged with a small beard spotted with grey, and yet despite his age, he's just as hyped as the kids.

The kids shout out the magic word – _abracadabra_ – and with a few taps of his wand, a rabbit is miraculously pulled from out of the hat.

"How do you think he does that?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Fang turns to me, serious, and replies, "It's magic."

I roll my eyes and 'gently' shove him. He smirks in return and turns back to the show.

"I'm serious," I persist. "Do you think he'd tell me if I asked?"

"A magician never reveals his secret, Max. Everyone knows that."

I glance at my watch, realising the cake should be just about done. "I'm going to check on the cake," I say.

He nods, engrossed in the show. _What a big kid!_

I lean down, looking through the oven's window. It looks….done, I think. I've never made a successful cake before, so am not completely sure. It's risen, yes, and it doesn't look like charcoal, another good sign.

I grab a pair of oven mitts, preparing to take it out the oven, when I hear a short, sharp rap at the back door. I look up, surprised to see the face of an attractive middle-aged woman with dark, tousled hair, tied back into a messy ponytail looking through the window. I recognise the woman as Fang's Mom. I thought he'd said she couldn't be here. I thought he'd said she'd been forced to work.

I open the door. "Hi," I say, "I'm not sure if you remember me…"

"Max," she says. "I haven't seen your Mom in forever. We'll have to meet up soon, it's been _way_ too long."

She suddenly laughs and throws her head back, removing a few strands of hair from out of her face. She stumbles inside and laughs again.

I frown and ask: "Are you ok?"

I look to her feet and note the heels she's wearing: I think even I'd trip up in them.

"Fine," she replies, seemingly unperturbed, "I'm dandy."

She looks around the room, noting the left over balloons and streamers on the counter.

"Is there a party going on?" she asks, confused.

The frown finds its way back onto my face. "Yeah," I say, wary, "Angel's birthday party. I thought you knew because…"

"Birthday?" A look of confusion situates itself onto her face. She puts a hand to her head, her other resting against the counter to support herself. "That's not today, is it?"

She sways for a moment, her handbag dragging against the floor as she stumbles towards the calendar. She drops her bag, and something clanks inside. While she scrutinises the calendar, I pick up her bag, worried she might trip over it: she doesn't appear too steady on her feet.

The bag's partly open, so I notice the bottle of vodka that's inside.

She turns back round and sees me with her bag. She smiles. "Can I have my bag? It's my girl's 7th birthday, so I want to celebrate a little."

I don't want to relinquish the bag over to her, but I'm powerless when she snatches it from out of my grasp. She pulls out the bottle, rifles through the cupboards until she procures a glass, pouring herself a generous drink.

"I don't think you should be drinking that," I warn.

She waves off my comment. "You sound just like, Nick. I shouldn't do this and I shouldn't do that. I'm the adult and I'm not doing anything wrong. I have a right to drink to my Angel's birthday, so either join me or don't say a word."

I can discern the slurring in her words now, and I realise just how dishevelled her clothes are: she's a complete mess.

I'm about to get Fang when he appears in the doorway, his eyes instantly locking on his mom and the drink she holds in her hand. He grits his teeth and snatches the glass and bottle, pouring their contents down the drain. His mom goes to stop him, but Fang instantly pushes her to the side, roughly.

"What do you think you're doing?" he whisper-shouts.

"What do you think _you're_ doing?" she loudly accuses. "Why wasn't I told about Angel's birthday party?"

Fang's eyes flit towards the door, fearful her voice has carried into the other room.

"Outside," Fang orders. "_Now_. You're not ruining this for Angel."

When she doesn't move, Fang grabs her by the shoulders and forcefully steers her outside.

I peek inside the living room, wondering whether the kids have picked up on the argument transpiring outside. But all appear totally engulfed by the magicians performance, shouting and cheering. Good.

I linger between the back door and the kitchen, not sure what to do. In the end I remain in the kitchen: I can easily discern their voices anyway.

His mom slurs: "What's your problem, Nick? I want to wish my Angel a happy birthday."

"I don't want her knowing that her mom's a lousy drunk and couldn't give a damn about her family."

There's the short, sharp sound of a slap. "How _dare_ you! How _dare _you accuse me of being a bad mother." She's sobering up now, her words more coherent.

"You _are!"_ Fang declares. "_I've_ been looking after this family, keeping us together. What have _you_ been doing? Looking for the solution to your problems at the bottom of a bottle?"

She scoffs. "_Someone _has to work. _Someone_ has to provide for you: cloth you and feed you."

Fang issues a short, bitter laugh. "That's_ not_ _you_. That's _Dad_ and _me_: Dad's been sending us money, and unlike you, I've got a job."

She's sucks in a large intake of breath.

Fang continues: "Surprised I found out? The first time you didn't come home, I called your work. They told me you'd been fired for being 'drunk and disorderly'. You couldn't even stay sober for work, for God's sake."

Her voice is thick with emotion when she retorts: "You don't know what it's like."

"Enlighten me."

She sniffs. "My mother died and then your father left me for another woman. I just need something to keep me going every now and then."

"She was _my _Gran and he was _my_ Dad. We're _all_ suffering. You're just making it _worse!" _He pauses for a second, breathing hard. "And you're drinking more than 'every now and then', it's more like _everyday._ What's the first thing you think about when you get up in the morning, huh? I bet it's not that you need to get the kids up for school."

"I'm not some bloody alcoholic, I'm your mother, and I won't have you speaking to me like this."

Fang lets out a frustrated sound and suddenly kicks the back door, making me jump back in surprise. "You _are_ a bloody alcoholic, all right. You need help, and I've been trying to give it to you. Why won't you go to the AA meetings?"

"I'm not like _them! _I'm not an alcoholic, and I _don't_ have a problem."

Fang scoffs. "Why do you think Dad left to be with another woman? You _drove _him to her. He was sick of the lies, just like I am. I know you've taken some of my money as well."

"_What?"_ She sounds genuinely surprised: perhaps she doesn't remember taking the money. Or perhaps, she's just innocent.

"I'm missing $50," Fang states hotly, "you can't honestly expect me to believe that someone else took it?"

"Maybe you lost or misplaced it…maybe that Max-girl took it."

_WHAT?_

"Don't you _dare_ accuse, Max. She's the only person who's been able to get me through these last few weeks."

"What have you been telling her? That I'm some drunk?"

He gives another short, bitter laugh. "I didn't need to. Seeing you then, in the state you're in, she's already realised." He sighs. "Do me a favour? Come back later…s_ober._ You'll ruin Angel's birthday party otherwise."

"I want to see her."

"In your state? Do you remember Angel's school concert this summer, when you walked in drunk and had to be dragged out by a parent? Do you remember how upset she was? You'll just be repeating what happened last time if you do."

She doesn't respond.

Fang continues: "The party's still going on, so Angel will want to be with her friends. Just come back later."

She sighs, exasperated. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. I'm just going to get my girl something for her birthday."

I can hear her heels clacking against the pavement as she retreats down the steps. I can hear Fang letting out a deep breath, grunting in frustration as he repeatedly kicks the fence, again and again until I'm by his side, my hand resting on his arm.

_Why had he kept secrets from me? Why didn't he tell me about his mom?_

He refuses to meet my eyes, choosing instead to glower at the fence.

"Fang?" When he doesn't answer I call his name again, waiting for him to look at me. When he does, I realise the mask of stolidity he wore so often has been shelved, his face having taken on a despondent and dejected look. His eyes shine with grief, his lips fixed in a firm line. I pull him into a hug. He's tense in the beginning, surprised at the gesture, and I'm almost certain he's going to stand stiff throughout. But then his arms encircle me, holding me tightly.


	17. Class Discussions

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

I park my car in its usual, unofficially dubbed 'Max's space' (so hands - _wheels_ off!), and turn to look at my smirking passenger. I raise my eyebrows at him questioningly, waiting for some quip about my driving. I've never had such a vocal passenger before; he 's always criticising my driving. _Jerk._

"Y'know," Fang begins, "you haven't parked this car very well. I'm pretty sure you're over the white line."

I roll my eyes, cutting the engine and get out the car, slamming the door loudly behind me. He follows suit _slowly_, doing so just to annoy me. I wait on the curb, hands on hips, assessing my parking skills. Ok, I won't ever vocally admit it, but I haven't parked particularly straight, and perhaps I've breached the white line to such an extent that another driver will be unable to park in the space beside me. _Oh, well._

"Told you," he gloats, coming up beside me. I elbow him in the arm, which he reciprocates with a mock scowl.

Until today, I haven't seen him since Angel's birthday party. I'd been worried that things would be awkward between us, and that I wouldn't know what to say and we'd be stuck in some kind of suffocating silence. I mean, I'm glad he's told me about his mom's alcoholism, but what advice can I give him? How can I help?

After his mom had left the house and I'd pulled him into a hug, we'd just stood there for the longest time. I don't know how long we'd stood like that, but when smoke began filtering through the crack in a window, we'd jumped apart, running inside to pull out the black remains of Angel's birthday cake. Fortunately, she hadn't been too upset, claiming she equally liked the dozen cupcakes we'd piled together, constituting as a cake with candles dotted on seven of the cupcakes. I'd offered to stay longer after Angel's friends had left, but Fang had rejected the offer, wanting to talk to his mom alone again.

I haven't yet asked him how another futile talk had gone (she was adamant she wasn't an alcoholic), because as soon as he'd slid into the passenger seat, he'd initiated our normal repartee.

It just isn't fair on him being burdened with so much responsibility. I'd suggested that perhaps we should tell my mom or another adult, gaining their advice on how to pursue this. Only Fang, being the stubborn fella he is, denounced such propositions.

"So," I begin, "how did it go with your mom after I left?"

He shrugs. "Same as usual. She doesn't think she has a problem."

"Maybe you should talk to someone."

"No." He shakes his head dismissively. "I don't want anyone to know. What if someone informed social services or something, and they wanted to take the kids into care, huh?"

"They wouldn't do that," I state. _Would they?_

He says, "When Mom's not around, I make sure the kids are fed and clothed, I help them with their homework and make sure they're picked up from school. I'm handling things just fine."

I nod. "Ok. I never meant to imply that you weren't doing a great job…"

"I know," he interrupts, "thanks for your concern, but we really are fine."

We ascend the steps to the English department in companionable silence. When I hear the loud clacking of heels smacking against the floor, I turn round sharply, only to see a girl, who I recognise from class, rushing towards us.

"Nick!" she calls. I groan and roll my eyes, anticipating her usual futile flirting with him.

She stumbles to a halt, almost colliding with Fang before he sticks out his arm, resting it on her shoulder to steady her.

"Oh, you saved me from falling," she cries, "thank you."

Fang nods, his face impassive.

"Let me make it up to you," she says, twisting a strand of bleach blond hair around her finger. Is she trying to look…coy?

Fang's eyes widen infinitesimally, shaking his head:_ no, no, no._

"Let me take you out tonight," she suggests, "we could go to a restaurant or a bar. Maybe a movie instead or…"

Ok, enough is enough: she has to go. _Now._

"He can't," I interrupt. Her eyes snap to mine, blinking, as if she's just suddenly realised my presence. I continue: "We're working on our English project tonight, and…" I glance at my watch, grabbing Fang's arm, "we've got to go now, otherwise we're gonna be late for class. _Bye_."

I all but drag Fang down the hall, not bothering to turn round to see the glares directed at the back of my head. He's strangely compliant with my tugging, which I find strange, so relinquish my grip, glancing at him from out of the corner of my eye. He's wearing that unholy grin of his, his eyes dancing with humour. _What?_

"Jealous, are we?" he asks.

"No!"

"Really? Because, if I recall correctly, we're not working on our project tonight."

"Did you want to go out with that blond bimbo?"

"No…"

"Than what's the problem?"

I don't have to look at his face to know he's still looking smug, the grin still there. "It just seemed like you were jealous. We could go out instead," he suggests.

I scoff. "What? No, of course not. You're being utterly absurd, because that would imply that I…that…well, I don't. So no, I'm not jealous, and no, I'm not going out with you tonight. I was just doing you a favour by giving you an excuse to not go out with her, that was all." And I was. How dare he insinuate that I…

"Right," Fang says, "keep telling yourself that."

I'm about to interject when he continues, "When_ are_ we working on our project together? Tomorrow night? I haven't got work then."

"Um…no, I can't," I say, "I'm going out with Sam." I fidget with the sleeve of my shirt, a fleeting wave of guilt washing over me.

Fang doesn't speak for several moments, but when he does, he does so quietly. "Why are you with him?"

I'm startled into silence: I was expecting him to voice such a question, or to administer it in such a soft tone.

"Because…because," I flounder for a moment, eventually replying, "he's a nice guy." I nod enthusiastically, having found the thread of my argument. "Sam's a _really_ nice guy, who…loves music, just like me."

He gives a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Other people like music, Max, not just the wiener. You can do better than him."

I scoff, rolling my eyes, sarcastically enquiring, "Like who, Fang? Who do you perceive as better?"

I fix him with a hard stare, daring him to argue, which he refuses to meet, his eyes glued to the floor and then to the wall. Anywhere except me. "There are people out there who would be better for you, that's all."

I sigh, preparing to retort, when I see Mr. Smith standing besides his classroom door, clapping his hands impatiently for us to join the already sitting and awaiting class. _Ooops._

"Are you guys together? I mean, as in, like, a couple?" A blond girl asks from her seat, her tone reproachful.

"No!" I exclaim, Fang responding in unison with, "yes".

My eyes are wide and my mouth is agape. _What the…_

"Yes," he repeats, this time louder, gaining the attention of the whole class, "Max is my girlfriend." _I think that statement just broke about a dozen hearts in this room._

He places his hand on the lower part of my back, half pushing and half guiding me to my seat. He sits beside me, something he'd lately become accustom to doing. He claimed it was either sit beside me, or surround himself by the half dozen girls who kept persisting him for his number, flirting with him whenever possible.

"What was that about?" I snap.

He looks away sheepish, biting his lip. "She keeps dropping hints that she likes me and wants to take me to some club. If you pretend to be my girlfriend, I won't have to deal with all their hassling."

My eyes are still narrowed, the frown still there.

He pleads: "_Please _just go along with it."

"What about Sam?" I remind him. "_He's_ my boyfriend."

"And he also majors in Music, not English. They won't ever see him. Different sides of campus."

I sigh, tapping a finger thoughtfully against my chin. "Hmmm, I don't know. What's in it for me?"

He rolls his eyes, sighing, thinking. He snaps his fingers, a half smile playing on his lips. "How about I take you out to that steak house a couple of streets down? Order whatever you like."

Oh, it's tempting. I never turn down free food. _Ever_.

"Deal," I say, "but I'm a big eater, and I'll be having desert."

He flashes me a smile, his teeth barely discernible, making my heart give an involuntary squeeze.

My attention is snapped back to the front of the classroom when Mr. Smith declares: "I want to discuss Ambiguity today."

He leans against his desk and folds his arms. "What have we learnt about David and Samantha? Has their relationship changed?"

I answer: "She no longer finds him so aggravating. She's learnt that there's more to him than meets the eye. He's cocky and arrogant and needs to be taken down a peg or two, but he shows he cares for her."

"Want to give an example?" Mr. Smith enquires.

I flip through my copy of Ambiguity, finding my desired extract nearer the beginning of the novel.

"Ok," I begin, "in Chapter 10, before the revelations unearthed about Samantha's mother, it clearly shows how protective he can be."

_An extract from Chapter 10 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha regards the man across the bar wearily. He's swaying, eyes unfocused, a finished pint in his outstretched hand. He's drunk, no doubt, and she should refuse to serve him. Only, she's alone tonight behind the bar, Bob having popped out not long before to pick up a relative from the airport, and she's worried he might prove difficult to handle._

_Samantha shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but I can't serve you anymore. I think you've had enough and should go home."_

_The drunk's dilated pupils focus on her infinitely then, the drunkard superseding to an angry and easily riled threat. His lips are pulled back in a feral snarl, his eyebrows drawn down into a frown. He leans close towards her and Samantha backs up, frightened. She casts a swift glance across the room: closing time is in twenty minutes, and all customers have filed out relatively early. All save him, who still demands more._

"_I tell ya when I finished," he slurs, faces inches from hers. "Pour. Me. A. Pint. _Now_. If ya know what's good for ya."_

"_If you don't leave, I'll have to call the police," she says, surprised to find that her voice is steady and calm. Her eyes instantly flit to the phone on the other side of the bar, and her heart sinks. Even though he's drunk and will be slower than her, he'll still be able to reach the phone before her, perhaps barring her way._

_The drunk slams his empty glass against the bar, smashing it, sending shards of glass across the bar and onto the floor. She jumps back, colliding with the back counter, knocking down half a dozen glasses._

_The kitchen doors fly open. In unison, both the drunk and Samatha's eyes lock onto the figure in the doorway. She never thought she'd ever be so relieved to see _his_ face._

_David's eyes take in the scene, his eyes flitting from the drunk to Samantha and then to the drunk once again, his face taking on its own feral snarl. David's hands are curled at his sides, into fists._

"_I think you should leave now," David remarks, his voice cold and steady. He takes a step towards the drunk._

"_I want another drink," the drunk slurs._

"_No…"_

"_I'm entitled to another drink. You haven't closed yet!"_

"_Yes, we have."_

_David grabs the drunk's arm, roughly steering him out the door. When the drunk begins to struggle, David's hand goes to the drunk's fingers, yanking his index finger back violently, incapacitating him. He cries out, struck by the pain. David knows all too well the effect he's created: pain rocketing up the man's arm and into his shoulder blades, intense and burning, becoming stronger all the time. The drunk doesn't even attempt resistance now: he's putty in David's hands._

_Samantha breathes a sigh of relief when he disappears through the doors, leaning against the bar for support._

_Moments later David is beside her, his features worried. "You ok?" he asks._

"_I'm fine," she half snaps. "I could have handled him, 'y'know."_

_He fixes her with a look that speaks volumes: _really?

"_Samantha," he begins softly, "he's big, stupid, and drunk. You're petite and were on your own here. He could of turned nasty….he _was_ turning nasty."_

_She doesn't want to admit that he's right and that she's lucky he was here at all, for that matter. _But what is he still doing here?

"_Didn't your shift finish an hour ago?"_

_He shrugs. "It took me longer than expected to clean the kitchen and make sure everything's ready for prep tomorrow. Whoever the last chef was, they weren't very well stocked. I've had to flit from a couple of supermarkets to gain the ingredients I want for tomorrow."_

_She nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer. She suspects there's perhaps more to it than that: there's no reason he couldn't just bring the ingredients with him tomorrow, instead of coming back here, late. Didn't he want to go home as soon as possible?_

"_Well," Samantha begins, "thanks for helping when you did. That whole disabling-thing was pretty cool. I couldn't believe it when he stopped struggling like that."_

_David shrugs, a small smirk quirking his lips. "Did I ever mention I'm a black belt in karate?"_

"_Seriously?"_

"_Honestly. It's a handy technique. I'll have to show it to you sometime."_

_She nods enthusiastically, a small smile playing on her lips._

_There's still so much she doesn't know about him, but gradually, she's beginning to piece him together._

"Awww," a girl cries out, "it's so sweet. David's so nice and stuff, but Samantha can be really stubborn. It's been pretty obvious she's liked him from the very beginning, but for whatever reason, she just won't admit it."

I frown. "How?" I ask. "She first perceived him as a total ass, doing all she could just to ignore him. She even commented that he was, 'the bane of her existence', and 'a torment she'd been subjected to endure'. She _really_ didn't like him in the beginning." I close the book decisively, believing I'd made my point, and very well, until Fang issues a small cough beside me. I roll my eyes, anticipating the contradictory remark.

"Actually," Fang says, "I think you're taking her words too literally. I don't think she ever thought him to be a 'torment' or the 'bane of her existence'. I think she felt the very opposite towards him."

I sarcastically remark: "Really? Care to provide some evidence to support that theory?"

His lips twist into a snarky grin. "Gladly." He flips through the book, in search of an extract. "Here," he points out, reading:

_An extract from Chapter 11 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha's eyes quickly flit to the wall clock: 11:55. David will be here any minute to begin his shift. She runs a hand through her hair, feeling the wiry strands sticking up this way and that. The customers are sparse, the ones remaining all with full pints. She decides that her presence won't be too sorely missed for the moment, and slips into the bathroom._

_She regards her appearance in the mirror warily. She'd rushed out the door quickly this morning, barely having time to brush her hair and teeth, putting on a bit of makeup, something she'd only been accustomed to doing of late. She wasn't sure where the compulsion stemmed from, as she'd never ranked her appearance as high priority before, but now, found herself checking in mirrors whenever possible before work. Assessing her appearance once more and deciding she isn't going to look much better than this, she exits the bathroom, only to see David talking to a young female customer._

_Samantha regards the customer with some contempt. She's very pretty, Samantha realises, dressed in a short mini skirt that showcases long legs, her short-sleeved shirt also revealing. The girl has a habit of twirling a stray lock of hair, over and over again, leaning as close towards David as she possibly can._

"_David?" Samantha calls._

_Hearing his name, David's head snaps up, his surprised eyes locking with hers. He turns to the girl once again and smiles, uttering what Samantha hopes are his excuses to leave. But just before he comes over towards her, Samantha notes the scrap of paper the girl pushes into his hand._

_Samantha grits her teeth, glaring at the girl._

_David appears completely oblivious to her disdain, cheerfully greeting her with, "Hey."_

"_I need you to change the barrels," Samantha says tightly. It isn't a total lie, as the barrels would need changing, and soon, but they could have waited until tomorrow._

"_Ok," he says, eyebrows raised at her tone. "Is something wrong?"_

"_No," she snaps. "Who were you talking to then? I saw her giving you a slip of paper. I'm presuming its her number, right?"_

_A smug smirk flits across his face because he knows what she's implying. Samantha just glares at him._

"_Jealous are we?" he taunts._

_She scoffs and turns her back on him, settling herself behind the bar. "I just thought your standards weren't as low as that," she coldly states._

_The smirk remains obstinate on his lips. "Just because a girl gave me her number, it doesn't mean I'm dating her. In fact, I even told her that I wasn't interested, but she was quite persistent I take it in case I change my mind. Which I won't, by the way."_

_Samantha doesn't speak, too embarrassed because she'd quite obviously revealed that she was taking some interest in his love life. She knows she shouldn't care, but she does._

"_Anyway," David continues, "I have my eyes on someone else."_

Fang shuts the book, smiling smugly. "Samantha starts taking more of an interest in her appearance because she wants to look good for David. And then, when she sees him with another girl, she gets jealous. And why would she behave like that? Because she_ likes_ him."

I hold up my hands in surrender. He has a point, I suppose, even though I am loathe to admit it.

"Good arguments," Mr. Smith commends.

The blonde pipes up again with, "I find Samantha quite annoying. We've just established that she's attracted to David, so why does she keep turning him down?"

Fang grumbles, barely discernibly, "She's stubborn."

I roll my eyes at his comment, proposing, "How can Samantha be sure that his advances are genuine? Maybe his 'asking her out' is all part of their banter: he could be winding her up."

"David's genuine," Fang imminently protests, "he wants to be with her, but she's just being difficult."

"Is she?" I retort, "I don't think so. Samantha can't be sure of his advances because he's never been direct and voiced his feelings for her. Ok, perhaps he hints, but she still can't be sure that he's _genuine _and it's _not _part of their banter. Also, he could have anyone he wanted, what with all his admirers, so why settle for her?"

Fang opens his mouth, about to protest, when I interrupt, "She doesn't want to risk getting hurt. If Samantha were to respond too eagerly to his advances, then she'd be leaving herself vulnerable."

Fang looks at me intensely, his eyes bearing into mine. I blush, wanting to look away but unable to, his eyes like magnets, drawing me in.

"He would never hurt her," Fang states, "he loves her, she just hasn't realised it yet."


	18. Annoying Sisters and Lunch

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Wow. I'd never expected to get 215 reviews for this story, so thanks – your thoughts are really appreciated.**

**I think I've mentioned this before, but a couple of reviewers have asked as to whether Ambiguity is a real novel, which I'm very flattered by, but is actually just something I created so as to foreshadow the events in Max and Fang's life.**

"_Good_ morning," I call, bounding down the stairs, taking two at a time.

Ella grumbles a "morning" as she frowns at her bowl of cereal. She's slumped forward, resting her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her knuckles. Nudge is beside her, patiently waiting for her to finish her breakfast before they head off for school.

"Morning, Max," Nudge chirps, as bubbly as ever. "You're in a good mood today. Normally you're like, 'Nudge, how can you be so upbeat in the mornings?' and, 'Excuse my lack of coherency, I'm not a morning person'. Is something happening today?"

I shake my head, pouring myself a steaming cup of coffee. I blow on it, watching as the flimsy wisps of steam begin to dissipate.

Ella suddenly perks up, straightening up, alert. She grins, regarding me slyly. "It's got something to do with, Fang," she states.

I gape, startled, and then frown. "No, it hasn't," I argue, "I'm just happy today."

She looks smug because she holds the transcendent knowledge of who I'd spoken on the phone to last night. Unfortunately, Ella had been the one who had picked up the phone when Fang had rung me, wanting to talk about our English project.

Ella declares: "You were on the phone with him for over an hour last night. Both Mom and I could hear you laughing away, as well. She didn't believe me when I told her who was on the phone, because you were talking almost _civilly_ together."

I can feel heat entering my cheeks and look away quickly, turning my attention to the contents inside of the fridge.

"She's blushing!" Nudge exclaims.

"It doesn't mean anything," I protest. And it doesn't, at all. "We were discussing our English project together. It's due in soon and we've still got a bit to do."

"For a whole hour?" Ella enquires.

I turn round sharply, content the blush has faded from my cheeks. "It wasn't an hour!"

"It was."

"Was not."

"Was."

"_Was not_."

"Then how long was it?"

I shrug. "Does it matter? It was purely about our project, nothing else." Ok, perhaps that was a little white lie, because although it had originally been solely about the project, it had quickly transpired into our favourite authors, our favourite novels, and our favourite music. Another precipitous turn in topic led us on to the discussion of tomorrow (today), and that he should live up to his agreement and treat me at this steak house he claimed was 'out of this world' after class.

"You and Fang would make such a cute couple," Nudge gushes. "He has that whole dark and moody look going on, which is incredibly hot and..."

I hold up my hand, stopping her in mid flow. I fix them both with hard looks, which are just futile because they're both grinning like maniacs.

"Listen," I say sternly, "there is nothing going on between Fang and me, understood? We. Are. Not. _Together._ And never will be, ok? Never ever. No way, _jose_. Because Fang and I together? Not gonna happen."

The grins are still there, their heads turning to look at each other in unison. "I think Max doth protest too much, don't you think, Nudge?" Ella asks.

"You're so right," Nudge responds, "Max is in love with Fang!"

I roll my eyes and grab my bag, hurriedly exiting the room, their chanting of 'Max and Fang sitting in a tree' no doubt going on as I leave the house.

* * *

"Hey," Fang greets, as he takes his seat beside me in class.

He notes the frown on my face and he raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Something wrong?" he asks, the concern just discernible in his features. "Have you had a fight with Sam?"

I shake my head. "No, it's not Sam. It's nothing really, just Ella and Nudge winding me up, that's all."

He nods his head, sifting through his bag for his books and some paper. "What about?" he asks mildly.

Oh, God. I'd hoped he wouldn't ask that, because how can I tell him the truth? I was already embarrassed, and knew, if I told him, he'd only make his own remarks, winding me up about it and teasing me about it.

I hesitate and he picks up on it, his eyes snapping back to mine, intrigued.

"It's nothing," I say, forcing a laugh. "They just have it in their heads that you and me _'like'_ each other."

When he doesn't speak, I continue: "Stupid, right? Because before, you and I could barely stand each other. We practically _hated_ each other."

I force another laugh, surprised to find him not smiling or laughing, but impassive, unreadable. He's wearing that mask again and I don't like it: I can't discern what he he's thinking or feeling, and I just don't like it.

Mr. Smith enters the room then, and both our attentions snap towards the front. I'm glad of the reprieve, but not so much when I hear Fang's quick, soft utterance: "I've never hated you, Max."

* * *

"_Come on, _Fang," I goad, impatiently shoving his books towards him.

He chuckles, stuffing his books in his bag, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I'm starving," I moan, "can you hurry up so we that we can go? Seriously, I'm so hungry, I think my stomach's begun digesting _itself_."

_Finally,_ he slings his bag over his shoulder and we exit the room.

"Are you that eager to get me by yourself?" he suggests, a smirk playing on his lips.

I scoff. "No, that's enough to put me _off_ my food."

He graces me with a mock glare and I grin.

"I skipped breakfast," I explain, "so this steak house better be 'out of this world'."

"Oh, it is," he promises, "it's not far from campus, so we can easily walk it."

We make the journey mostly in a companionable silence, occasionally talking about the quintet and how well Fang's compositions are going.

The steak house is slotted between two intimidating buildings: an anomaly squeezing between buildings epitomising the modern age, reaching towards the sky in a competition of glass and metal. The steak house itself appears nice enough inside: portraits of celebrities dotted around the room, preserved in thick silver frames that tie in with the white furnishings.

"Can I help you?" a waitress asks, a pen and pad in hand.

"Yeah," Fang responds, "table for two?"

She nods, smiling. "Right this way."

She leads us over to one of the more intimate booths. I'm about to protest that we're not a couple, like I suspect she believes, but stop, deciding to allow the pretence for once. Food took prime concern in my mind right now, not how people perceived Fang and I together.

She hands us some menus and promises to get our drinks to us soon, leaving Fang and I in a somewhat pleasant silence. That is just one of the discernible differences between my time spent alone with Fang and my time spent alone with Sam. There are no awkwardness or compulsion to grasp at a conversation with Fang: our silences aren't uneasy, but relaxed and never long lasting, because we'll soon slip into another conversation or some witty banter.

"What are you thinking about?" Fang asks, looking up from his menu.

I reply: "Nothing." _You._

"You were smiling at something," he says, then, "find something on the menu you like?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"I don't think I could eat another bite," I groan, dropping my fork with a clatter.

Fang chuckles, resting his hands on his full stomach, watching me with amusement.

"That's what you said after the main course, and yet you till found room for desert," he remarks, a grin playing on his lips.

"I never turn down desert," I declare, "it's way too yummy."

He's staring at me intently, a small smile playing on his lips, and I blush.

"This reminds me of Mary's 8th birthday party," he says. "I remember you pigging out at the buffet, complaining about feeling sick, and instead of missing out on the birthday cake like you should have, ate two pieces."

I give a short laugh, remembering. "I threw up all over Mary's new shoes. She stopped speaking to me for about a week after that."

He chuckles again, like only Fang can. "You've done some memorable things over the years," he says. "Like that fire you caused in chemistry."

I scoff. "If I remember correctly, that whole incident was _your _fault, not mine. You shouldn't have handed me the wrong metal to add to that acid."

"You should have checked the label."

"I didn't expect you to be so sly. I believed there was good in everyone until then, and that you'd never be so mean. Your stunt forced me to re-evaluate that belief."

"And what do you believe now?"

"That you're evil."

"That's harsh."

"But true."

"Still harsh. I'll have to prove you wrong."

I raise a quizzical eyebrow, noting the slight upturn of his lips. His obsidian eyes are bright and he seems more open and less closed off than before. I'd noticed before how he's more reticent around JJ and the others, preferring to communicate through physical gestures, speaking when only necessary. Around his family and me, however, he proves to be a competent conversationalist, smiling more readily and joking more easily. The change is profound, but I've never really questioned it before. During high school he'd interacted with his 'friends' (cheerleaders and jocks – enough said), much the same as he did with JJ and the others. The fact that I can never get him to shut up sends my heart beating at a faster pace.

"You've done some memorable stuff, as well," I say. "There was that time you ran into Dr. Beard with your tray full of food, staining one of his impeccably white shirts."

"He gave me detention for that," Fang grumbles.

"And then there was that time in Jr. High when you fell off the stage during our performance of Joseph, taking out the whole back row of the band."

He coughs. "You pushed me."

"And then," I continue, ignoring his interruption, "there was that fight you had with Cormac Jones. You almost got suspended for that, but the coach managed to pull a few strings since you were their star player and had an important game coming up. What were you two fighting about again?"

Fang shrugs and I'm disdained to see that his mask is back in place.

"It was only two years ago," I say, "you must remember."

"No, I don't."

I'd asked him at the time, a couple of days after their fight, as to why they'd fought. Fang wasn't known for being pugnacious, but, from what I'd heard, he'd just suddenly attacked Cormac and no one had known why.

"I don't blame you for punching him," I persist, "he was an ass and a bully. He tried to get me to do his homework a couple of times, and when I wouldn't, he'd knock my lunch tray out of my hands and try and trip me up in the halls."

"I know," Fang says tightly. The skin around his eyes is imperceptibly tighter, his jaw clenched. "He deserved a lot more than a broken nose."

I nod, agreeing. Fortunately, after Cormac had taken the just beating from Fang, his bullying days had ceased and instead of purposely pursuing me in the halls like before, he'd avoid me. It was strange, but I certainly hadn't complained.

"Anyway," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "thanks for buying me lunch."

His eyes brighten at this and his rigid posture eases somewhat. "No problem." He grins and leans forward. "Does this mean you'll play along and be my girlfriend?"

I tap a finger across me chin, pretending to think about it. I'm going to do it, of course, because the look on those Fangirls' faces is just way too funny. "I _suppose _I can deal with it…for now. But under no circumstances am I holding your hand, or…or kissing you. That would just be gross."

He opens his mouth to reply, but a waitress comes over, noting our empty plates.

"Finished?" she asks, and we nod. "Would you like anything else?"

Fang shakes his head and asks for the cheque. I feel uneasy about allowing him to pay for the whole meal: I'm pretty sure his wages went towards his College fund.

"I'll pay," I offer.

He looks up, frowning. "It's my treat."

"I know," I say, "but you need the money for College and stuff."

He sighs. "I have a College scholarship," he explains, "and my dad covers a lot of our living costs – out of guilt, of course, so I think I can afford to buy you a meal. It would make me feel less guilty since I owe you for all those lifts you've been giving me, and then helping out at Angel's party, as well."

I nod, giving a small smile. "Thanks then."

"You're welcome, Maxie."

"Don't push it, Fangie."

He grins and accepts the cheque from the waitress. He digs out his wallet, opens it, and frowns.

"Something wrong?" I ask. "If you haven't got enough, I can help pay. I don't mind."

"No," he says, "no, it's not that. I just could have sworn I had four twenties in here, but now, I only have two."

He slams down the wallet, his jaw clenched. "I can't believe she's taken to stealing my money now."

I don't need to ask who he's referring to – his mom, the dependent alcoholic.

"Are you sure?" I ask, "when you questioned your mom at Angel's party, she seemed sincere when she said she hadn't taken it."

"Who else could have taken it, Max?" he snaps. "Angel? Gazzy? Iggy's blind, for God's sake, so I don't think _he's_ taken it."

We don't speak for a moment, both lost in thought.

Eventually I ask, "What are you going to do?"

He sighs, suddenly looking tired, weary. "I don't know. I just don't know anymore. Everything's just confusing right now. I don't know what to feel, and I don't know what to think."

I'm surprised at how open he's being, but touched that he trusts me enough to relieve some of his thoughts on to me. I have the desire to hug him and comfort him, but I don't act on it, not yet.

Fang lays down a couple of notes and some loose change. He looks at me: _ready to go?_ I stand up and follow him out.

When we're outside I put my arm around him, bringing him closer, and lay my head against his shoulder. He doesn't pull away, instead looping his arm around my waist, holding me tightly against him.

* * *

_An extract from Chapter 17 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha watches intently as the flimsy wisps of smoke coil around her hands, brimming over her cup of steaming hot coffee. She blows, waiting for David, who sits opposite her, to speak. They're in a cafe, on their break from the pub. The decor inside the room is simple: potted plants dotted around the room; tables and booths, filled with people most likely on their lunch breaks as well._

"_How are things at home?" David asks. It has been a week since he'd discovered her secret: that her mother is an alcoholic, but he still doesn't know the complete story. Samantha has yet to tell him about the younger brother she normally looks after, or the father with Alzheimer's._

"_At home?" she repeats. "Same as usual. I can't seem to get through to Mom, she just can't see that she has a problem."_

"_They never can," he mutters._

_Samantha frowns, detecting something (hurt?) in his voice._

"_Yeah," she agrees, "they never can."_

"_Have you tried talking to someone?" he asks._

_She bites her lip. "Sort of. I've asked about AA meetings and spoken to some of the people there. They just say it can take them awhile to realise they're problem. Normally, they realise it if something happens, like they're health is affected by it or…or they get hurt and harm themselves or someone else because of it."_

"_I'm sure it won't come to that," David assures, taking her hand in his, resting it on top of the table. She's surprised at the gesture but does not pull away: she liked the comfort, the sentiment._

_They slip into silence for a moment. It's not awkward, just filled with thought. Eventually David says: "It's quite commendable that you've stuck by her for all of these years."_

_Samantha gives a bitter laugh, pulling her hand from out of his. "Not really," she says, "I'd entertained the idea, but could never do it. I…um, I've never mentioned this before…" she gives a nervous laugh this time, and bites her lip. "I have a younger brother, David. He's just ten, so he needs me when Mom's unable to look after him."_

_David sits there is silence for a moment, thinking. Perhaps she's holding back more, he thinks. A hand had gripped his heart sometime during their conversation, giving it a tight squeeze. What else is she hiding?_

"_Is there anything else I need to know?" he asks, trying to encourage her with a small smile._

_Samantha nods, surprised to see hurt flash in his eyes. He hadn't liked her keeping so much from him: she hadn't realized just how much he cares._

"_My dad has Alzheimer's," she continues. "He was diagnosed with it two years ago. He doesn't live with us anymore, we just couldn't cope." She sucks in a breath and continues, "That's when Mom's drinking really began. Dad's condition deteriorated quickly." Her voice cracks on her last words. "He doesn't recognise us at all now."_

_Sliding out of his seat and sitting beside her on the booths elongated seat, he puts his arms around her, allowing her to rest her head against his shoulder. She sniffs, refusing to let the tears slip down her cheeks. He holds her more tightly, stroking her hair, muttering, "It's going to be ok."_

_She doesn't disagree with him, because in his arms, she thought it could – _would_, be. And the tears fall hot and fast down her cheeks then._

_David holds her and soothes her. Before coming here, he'd worked himself up to tell her the truth as to why he'd switched jobs so suddenly, and how he now found himself slumming it in a cheap apartment. There is so much to tell her and to explain, but now is just not the time. But he'll tell her soon, he promises himself._

**This was more of a filler chapter in preparation for the next, which should shine some light on other ambiguous elements present in the story. This chapter, however, has hopefully revealed more about Max and Fang's relationship before they went to College.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	19. Revelations

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride**

**Thanks for the encouraging reviews!**

**In response to a review from sapphire17choco, I don't plan on completing the whole of the novel Ambiguity, and will just continue including snippets throughout the story to foreshadow Max and Fang's life - sorry if you wanted to read it.**

"Don't forget that your projects are due in tomorrow," Mr. Smith shouts, as we file out of his room.

I turn to Fang, panicked. "We're doomed."

He nods, agreeing. _Thanks for that, Fang._

"How far do you think we are from finishing?" I ask.

He lets out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair, giving it a somewhat dishevelled look. "We still have a couple of extracts to analyse, and then we have to decide who's saying what for our presentation in front of the class. It's going to take a few hours, perhaps all night."

"Work on it at your house?"

He opens the door for me, and we slip inside the Music room. "It'll have to be," he responds, "Mom's 'looking' for a job, so I don't know when she'll be back." Fang uses his fingers for quotation marks when he says "looking" in regards to his Mom's job searching, as she tended to come back home from these expeditions either drunk or tipsy.

"Hey guys," JJ chirps. She's unpacking her violin from beside Phil, who's struggling to change a broken cello string. He waves at us, distracted by the difficult task at hand. Dylan is sitting down with his viola in hand, ready to play. When Sam spots me from his position beside the piano, he smiles broadly and walks over towards me, sweeping me into a tight hug, rocking us from side to side.

"Hey," I laugh, wondering what has put him in such high spirits. "What's made you so happy?"

"Sam has some good news," Phil explains, "he's been on cloud nine all day."

I frown as Fang grunts and walks off to unpack his violin. I pat Sam on the back and gently disentangle myself from his arms.

"You'll never guess what," Sam enthuses, jumping up and down with uncontained vigour, "the doctor's think I can have my cast removed next week!"

I find myself smiling as well, matching his excitement. "That's great!"

"I'll be able to play the violin with you guys again. Fang won't have to cover for me anymore."

The smile's gone from my face now, a frown in its place.

Sam notices my change in mood and raises an eyebrow, worried. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Of course," I say, forcing a smile onto my lips again. "It's_ really_ good. I know how much you've missed playing."

He's seemingly satisfied with my answer, and kisses me on the cheek. "Everything's going to go back to normal again," he says.

I nod slowly, hoping my façade of excitement is still convincing.

I feel eyes on me and look up, only to find Fang staring straight at me. For a fleeting moment I notice the infinitesimal widening of his eyes, and can see the despondency in them. He catches himself, however, and schools his expression, the impassive mask returning.

Phil plucks a few dulcet notes and shouts, "So, what are we playing today?"

* * *

After practice, Fang and I walk to my car in silence. It's as if an itchy blanket had surrounded us: it's suffocating and uncomfortable and I wanted it gone. But what can I say? When Fang had joined our group we'd both known that it was only temporary until Sam's hand healed. But over these last couple of months I'd dispelled the thought of him not being our First Violin, of us not playing together for hours after classes, and I'd also forgotten how little time we'd then be spending together. We still have class, yes, but it won't be the same, especially since our time together will be further cut as our project will be reaching its conclusion tonight. There will no longer be a reason for us to spend so much time together and, for whatever reason, that really bothers me.

"I think," I say, turning to Fang, "that I might miss you…just a _little_ bit."

He regards me with amusement dancing in his eyes, a grin stretching his mouth upwards.

"That's because I'm such a wonderful person," he says, grinning.

I roll my eyes. "Conceited much?"

He chuckles briefly before saying, "I'm not going anywhere, y'know."

I shrug, unlocking the car and sliding inside. I click my seatbelt in place. "I know, but no project and no quintet practice. We'll only see each other in class." I pause. "Actually, that'd be a good thing, because maybe I'll be able to retain my sanity a little longer by _not_ associating myself with you so much."

He gives a short laugh, seemingly lighter now, and a little less closed off. "Oh Maxie, I assure you it's the other way around. I'm perfectly sane, unlike some."

I roll my eyes, mumbling, "yeah right."

He laughs again and looks at me intensely. Warmth flares in his eyes, and he's still wearing a smile. "We'll still see each other a lot," he promises, "we're still studying Chaucer, and I know how much some of those words confuse you. But, what with me being incredibly intelligent and a modal student and everything, will be willing to help you out whenever you require my expertise."

I roll my eyes again. _He's just so full of himself and arrogant and infuriating and…_

"As I said," I say, "seeing less of you is probably a good thing."

He's about to respond, but I interrupt, changing the topic. "How's Iggy? Is he still being a moody teenager?"

"Worse," he grumbles, "he's always trying to pick fights with me at home now, slamming doors and playing his music as loud as it can go. I just hope he grows out of it soon. He's fifteen now, so how long do you think I've got?"

I shrug, concentrating on the road. "Maybe a year? Maybe two? Three tops."

"Gee, thanks for that."

I smile. "Pleasure." I round a corner and the smile slips from my face. "Maybe Iggy isn't coping so well with everything's that's gone on," I suggest, trying to be tactful. "He's lost his sight, his Gran died not long ago, and then your dad leaves and your mom's now drinking all the time. It's going to be hard for him."

Fang's silent for a moment, eventually responding with a quiet, "I know. It's hard for them all, especially him, because he knows how bad everything's gotten. Angel and Gazzy don't know the extent of Mom's drinking. They know she drinks a bit too much sometimes, but they've very rarely seen her drunk, I don't let them." He takes a deep breath. "Iggy and I have argued about Mom's drinking a lot. Mom started drinking excessively after Gran died, the problem gradually getting worse until she'd stay out all night, retuning the next morning."

He cuts off for a while. I don't interrupt him, knowing there's more he has yet to tell me. "Dad was having an affair. I'm sure Mom knew about it, and I'm sure that was just another cause for her drinking. He'd come home from work later and later every night, sometimes not even bothering to return until the next morning. I confronted him about it and he confessed." Fang barks out a short, bitter laugh. "He didn't have much of a choice really. I'd answered his phone when his _mistress _rung and, believing I was my dad, she asked me what time I'd be round and whether I'd be staying the night."

I reach an amber light at the cross roads, slowing the car down, and reach my hand across, grasping Fang's hand in mine, giving it a small squeeze. He squeezes back and I relinquish my grip, placing both hands back on the steering wheel.

Fang continues: "I told him he should just leave if he wanted to be somewhere else, because he was doing us no good anyway. He'd tried to get Mom to stop, but they'd only end up arguing with each other, much like Mom and I do now." He sucks in a breath. "I didn't think he'd actually leave, but…next day, there was just the letter of sorry and the promise to send us money."

We're outside his house now but neither one of use moves. _Why didn't you tell me all of this sooner, Fang?_

I remember Angel and Gazzy are at a neighbour's right now. It had been arranged that they stay there until Fang got back from today's extended practice: we're playing at a wedding soon, and so had felt the need for an extended rehearsal.

I turn to Fang slowly, only to find him looking out the window and then towards the floor: anywhere but at me. He can feel my eyes on him, I'm sure, but he refuses to meet my gaze.

In a quiet voice he says: "Mom's drinking's got worse after Dad left. Iggy says it's my fault he left in the first place. I think he's right."

"No," I say insistently. Fang still refuses to look at me, so I slip my fingers under his chin and forcefully pull his head up. He's surprised at my actions, but that's all I can ascertain when he wears that impassive mask. "It's not your fault," I say, "so don't ever think that, ok? It was your dad's choice. It was _his_ fault, not yours."

He averts his eyes from mine, mumbling, "He left because I told him to."

I bring his face closer to mine, wanting him to look at me, wanting him to understand. "He left because he _wanted_ to. You can't blame yourself for this."

He sighs, despondent, and a lock of dark hair flops in front of his face. I don't know why I do it, I obviously wasn't thinking coherently, because I brush the lock back, resting my palm against the side of his face. He blinks, and a renegade tear escapes. I wipe it away quickly with my thumb.

"This is not your fault," I reiterate, cupping his face between both of my hands. He leans into my touch, warmth flaring in his eyes again. "Do you understand? You've kept your family together, and you've done a great job. You've been amazing, you're…" I catch myself quickly, surprised at the rush of words that had escaped my lips. My cheeks feel hot and flushed.

"You're blushing," Fang whispers.

My eyes focus on his lips: they're quirked upwards in his characteristic half-smile. He leans forward, tilting his head, and my eyes flutter shut in anticipation. His lips reach mine then, soft and warm, gently moving against my own. My arms involuntarily snake themselves around his neck, bringing him closer, while his hand finds its way into my hair. All other thoughts and worries flit from my mind, all save Fang, and the feel of his lips against mine.

I don't now how long we kiss, but he pulls away suddenly, a goofy grin playing on his lips. I don't move, wondering what the hell had just happened. He notices my look of confusion, and worry collects in his obsidian eyes, a frown just lining his forehead.

I hear it before I see it, and it grabs my attention: a splatter of raindrops smacking against my windshield. A navy blanket has superseded the day's bright blue sky, the sporadic drifts of dark clouds rendering the sky synergistically darker. More drops accompany the first, and it's a consistent downpour, blurring the world outside my window.

I don't look at Fang's face, afraid of what I might see, afraid of what I might do or say. I'm confused. I'd kissed Fang. I'd cheated on Sam. I don't know anything anymore.

"I need to get Angel and Gazzy," Fang states, his voice level and even, no emotion discernible. I nod my head. "Will I see you inside the house?" He doesn't think I'll stay; he thinks I'll leave and go home. I want to, just so that I can sort through the cascade of thoughts jumbling through my mind, but I can't. We still have our project to complete and I'm not willing to jeopardise both our grades like that.

"I'm staying," I say, turning to him, giving him a small smile.

He's wearing the mask so I can't fathom his thoughts or feelings. Had I hurt him that bad by not saying anything after the kiss?

Fang says: "Iggy should be inside the house. He'll let you in."

I nod, both of us getting out of the car, dashing towards our intended destinations.

I knock on the door, dripping wet, expecting Iggy to answer and soon, but no one comes to the door. I shout through the letterbox: "Iggy? It's Max. Can you let me in? Fang's just gone to pick the kids up." There's no answer from inside, and I can't hear any movement. I knock the door, again and again, and I'm still calling his name when Fang and the kids come back.

"Isn't he answering?" Fang asks.

I shake my head: no.

He tries the handle: no luck, I'd tried that already. Fang frowns and gets out his key.

Angel asks: "Why isn't Iggy answering?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe he's taking a nap," Gazzy suggests, "so that's why he hasn't heard us."

"Perhaps," Fang says, with little conviction, unlocking the door.

When we're all inside, Fang shouts, "Iggy? Iggy are you up there?" He runs upstairs, soon coming back down shaking his head. While we dry off, Fang gets out his phone, checking for messages.

"Anything?" I ask.

He imperceptibly shakes his head, going over to the home phone to check for missed calls there. There's nothing: no new messages. A knot of apprehension twists inside my stomach: _where is he?_

Frowning, Fang dials Iggy's number, putting it to his ear. It rings and rings and rings, but he doesn't pick up. After several attempts, Fang leaves a message, asking Iggy to call him back straight away because he's worried and it's getting late and he should be home by now.

I rest my hand on his shoulder but he just shirks it off. I hide my face then, not wanting him to see the hurt in my eyes. I suppose it's just really: I had, after all, hurt him by not speaking after our kiss.

I glance at the clock above the fireplace: 7:10. Iggy should have been home over three hours ago.

"Where's Iggy?" Angel asks again. "Why isn't he here?"

I crouch down low, my eyes level with hers. "I don't know, Angel. We're just trying to find out where he is, ok?"

She nods, grabbing her Angel bear, Celeste, a gift Fang had given her for her birthday. I have yet to see her parted from it. She sits beside Gazzy on the settee, watching cartoons.

Fang begins opening and shutting desk drawers. Eventually he stops, digging out an address book. He finds his desired page and dials a number. It rings and rings, but like with Iggy, no one picks up. He flips through the address book again, slamming it down in frustration when he doesn't find what he wants. Gazzy and Angel's eyes snap towards us. Their faces are tinged with worry: their eyebrows drawn down, looking forlorn.

Not wanting to upset them anymore, I gently push Fang into the kitchen. Strangely, he complies, and looks at me, panicked. The mask is gone now, and I can see everything: the worry, the concern, the…love. Fang is 18, just barely an adult, and yet he's been tasked with the responsibility of a whole family, trying to keep them together. Adversity is a frequent visitor in his life right now: this is just another problem, but hopefully one that can be resolved soon.

"I've tried calling one of Iggy's friends," Fang explains, "but no one's picking up. I can't find any of his other friends' numbers in the address book."

I nod, the knot inside my stomach tightening. "Ok," I say, "we're going to find him. He's most likely at a friend's house. Do you know where any of them live?"

"Only one," he says.

"Why don't you take my car and drive over there?" I say. "While I stay here with the kids."

He shakes his head furiously. "I can't drive, Max. I haven't even had a driving lesson before."

"Can you leave the kids with someone?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "I could ask the neighbour they've just come from."

I nod. "Good. Get them to look after Angel and Gazzy, and I'll drive you over there, ok?"

He nods, and leaves the room, going to ring his neighbour.

It's 7:45 by the time Fang gets off the phone. "She's going to come round and stay with the kids," Fang explains, grabbing his coat. "She should be here any minute."

He turns to the Angel and Gazzy then, forcing a smile onto his lips. "Hey, guys," he says, sitting beside them on the settee. "I've got to go out with Max for a bit, ok?"

"To bring Iggy home, right?" Gazzy asks.

"Yeah, exactly. So Miss. Mann is going to come and stay with you, ok?"

They both nod, and give Fang a quick hug.

There's a knock at the door and they all jump apart. Fang dashes to the door, struggling to unlock the door quick enough. The despondency in his voice is only too evident when he greets, "Hey Miss. Mann, thanks so much for coming last minute."

"It's ok," she responds, "is your mom working late again tonight?"

"Yeah."

"I've never met such a committed woman. Have you let her know about Iggy's absence?"

"Haven't got through to her yet, but I'll try again later."

"Ok, I'm sure it's nothing. He's most probably at a friend's house and his phone's flat. I hope you find him soon."

"Me too."

The sky's a black canvas now, with no stars discernible as rain clouds still drift overhead, unleashing torrents off rain that smack against my windshield.

Fang's beside me in the passenger seat, squinting through the rain, trying to make out the street names. He pulls the window down and tells me to stop. He shouts: "Andy, is that you?"

A figure pauses mid-sprint on the pavement, his head snapping towards us. He pauses for a second, wiping rain from out of his eyes, slicking back his sopping red hair from his face. He jogs over to us, frowning. "Nick?" he says.

"Have you seen Iggy?" Fang asks, straight off.

"No," Andy answers, frowning. "Hasn't he come home?"

"No, he hasn't. Would he maybe be at Greg's or Richie's house?"

He shakes his head. "Don't think so. Greg's at a family reunion, and Richie left to go skiing with his family yesterday."

Fang curses quietly under his breath. I lean forward, towards Fang's window and ask: "Do you have any idea as to where he might be?"

Andy begins shaking his head, stopping suddenly, a fleeting look of panic crossing his features. "Um," he begins, talking louder so that he could be heard above the heavy rain, "this may be a little farfetched, and completely wrong, but…"

"What?" Fang snaps, "just tell me."

"Did Iggy ever mention a guy called Dean?"

Fang frowns. "Dean? No…no, why?"

Andy runs a hand irritably through his hair again. "Well, Dean and his friends…um, they're a bunch of Seniors who've been picking on Iggy."

"He's being bullied?"

"We told him to tell you, we really did. I kept telling him to tell a teacher or something, but he wasn't having it."

"What do they do, Dean and them lot?"

Again, Andy runs a hand through his hair, quickly replying, "They stick signs on Iggy's back and take his bag, hiding it around school. Sometimes they take his cane, too." He pauses, looking panicked. "I'd hoped Iggy'd told you or something."

"No, he didn't," Fang says coldly. "When was the last time you saw my brother?"

"I saw him just outside the school gates. He told me he had a couple of things to sort out, and wouldn't be getting the school bus today."

"What? Do you think he could still be at the school?"

"No, he was walking towards the woods."

"The woods?"

"Yeah, they're just by…"

"I know where they are," Fang snaps, livid, "I just don't understand why he'd go there. I also don't understand why you didn't tell me or a teacher about this."

"Nick, I'm so sorry I…"

Fang holds up a hand. "Just forget it. Call me straight away if you see or hear from him, ok?" Fang grabs a piece of paper and furiously scribbles his phone number down, giving it to a very guilty looking, flustered Andy.

"Woods?" I ask.

"Yeah," Fang says, as we drive off, "we can check out the area. What was Iggy thinking? He's blind, he could easily get lost around those woods."

I don't answer, instead concentrating in driving in such treacherous conditions.

"It's cold and it's tipping it down with rain," Fang continues, "what if Iggy's hurt?"

This time I reply, "Let's not make any hasty assumptions, ok? I'm sure he's fine." I hoped Fang heard the conviction I'd tried to instil in my voice. "Let's just get to the woods first."

We drive in silence, Fang looking through his window continuously, checking his phone every now and then for messages. When I pull up alongside a curb, just outside the woods, the rain has abated slightly and is less intense, but still shows no sign of relenting soon.

Fang bolts out of the car before I've even had time to cut the engine. I swear loudly, annoyed at his rashness, but realise that if I was in his position and Ella was missing, I'd behave in just the same fashion – charging off. I pull my coat around me tightly, making sure my hood is covering my face. I look left and right, generally scouting the area. Fang is a little ahead, calling "Iggy? Iggy?"

I follow close behind, raking my eyes across the outskirts of the forest. In this light I can barely discern anything: the forest is just one giant mass, individual trees barely distinguishable from the tight cluster.

Rain runs down the back of my coat, travelling along my spine. It provokes a violent shiver from me, bringing with it a wave of despondency and a sense of helplessness. _How are we going to find Iggy in this weather? We don't have a clue where he could be. He could be anywhere._

"Iggy? Iggy is that…" Fang trails off, instead calling, "Max? I've found him, he's over here. He's ok."

I look in the direction to where Fang's voice came from. He's not far inside the forest, crouching down in front of a great Oak tree. A figure is curled in a ball underneath it. I run towards them, the building mass of worry I'd previously felt gradually dissipating.

"Thank God," I pant, skidding to a halt beside them, collapsing onto my knees. The knot of apprehension has unwound completely now, the more potent and more readily accepted fury and anger taking its place when I see what _they've_ done. Iggy's bag is left discarded a couple of feet away, his books and papers strewn around him, ripped and degraded from the rain. His cane lays beside him, broken in two.

Fang gently removes Iggy's hands from across his face, scrutinising him for injury: thankfully I can only detect a bloody nose.

"Iggy? Iggy, will you please talk to me," Fang pleads. Iggy's eyes are red and puffy, his eyes brimming with tears. He gives a wobbly smile.

"Hey," Iggy croaks.

Fang chokes out a laugh then, relief instantly flooding his features, his smile broad and unrestrained. He pulls Iggy into a tight hug.

"I didn't know where you were, Iggy," Fang chokes out, his voice thick with emotion. "I didn't know what to think."

The canopy above us offers little in regards to shelter from the incessant pelts of rain. Iggy's shaking uncontrollably. He's drenched and sopping all the way through.

"We need to get back to the car," I say, as soon as Fang releases Iggy.

Fang nods, gulping, swallowing his relief. He stands up, helping Iggy to his feet, and winds an arm around his waist, supporting him.

I dash to the car, grabbing a blanket from the boot and putting it in the back for Iggy. I put the heater up full blast, Fang and Iggy soon clambering into the back. Fang puts the blanket around Iggy's shoulders, rubbing his shoulders to try and infuse some warmth into his frozen body.

As soon as they're both settled, I pull out off from the curb and drive.

"I've tried calling you several times," Fang says gently, "why didn't you pick up?"

Iggy takes a shuddering breath. "Some guys took my phone."

"Dean and his friends?"

"How do you know about them?"

"We saw Andy when we were driving around, trying to find you, he told me about the bullying, Iggy. Why didn't you tell me?"

Thickly, Iggy replies, "So much going on lately…it would only have made things worse. I was going to handle it today…get them to stop pushing me around….they_ promised_ me they'd stop it if I just…if I gave them this money." In a rush he says, "I'm so sorry, Fang. I've been taking money from you...out of your wallet and around the house. I didn't have enough of my own to pay them off…I didn't know where else to get it from, I'm so…"

Fang stops him, interjecting, "It's ok…it's ok." I can hear Iggy crying quietly in the back, Fang rubbing his back comfortingly. "I'm not mad at you," Fang soothes, "I just wished you would've told me sooner."

An exhausted silence settles around us then, the revelations of the day sinking in. When I pull up alongside Fang's house, the rain has drizzled down to a light shower.

Miss. Mann greets us with a small smile when she opens the door, relief instantly flooding her slate-coloured eyes. She holds a pudgy hand to her heart and steps aside to let us in.

"I'm so glad you found him," she whispers. "I sent Angel and Gazzy to bed just over an hour ago."

"Thanks," Fang says, grateful. "You've been a life saver tonight."

"It's no problem, but we need to get you all out of those wet clothes. Iggy especially. I'll make you all some warm drinks – we need to get some feeling back into those bones of yours. Get changed, and I'll have it ready for you all when you come down."

Fang nods, giving her a tired smile. His arm's still wrapped around Iggy's shoulders, as if he's afraid any breech in contact will result in his disappearance again. Fang taps me on the arm, grabbing my attention, and says, "You can change into some spare clothes of mine."

I follow them upstairs quietly, not wanting to disturb Angel and Gazzy. It's a futile attempt, however, because they hear us anyway, Angel calling, "Fang? Did you find Iggy?"

"They found me, Angel," Iggy says. There's scuffling and the sound of heavy pounding feet as they meet us on the landing, both Gazzy and Angel running to give Iggy a hug.

"We were really worried," Gazzy says, his voice muffled against the blanket still wrapped around Iggy's sopping figure.

Iggy reciprocates the hug, giving them both a tight squeeze before letting them go.

Angel fixes a cute frown on her face, scolding, "Don't you do that again, Iggy. We were worried."

A small smile finds its way onto his face, and he shakes his head. "I won't. Why don't you go back to bed guys? It's late."

"Ok," they say in unison, "see you tomorrow."

Iggy leaves to go to his room, while Fang pulls me into his. I've never been in his room before, so I took it all in, from the expansive bookcase in the corner to the pictures of his family on the windowsill. A music stand and his violin sit in another corner, more piles of books and sheets of music sporadically dotted around the room. It reminds me of mine room: an organised mess.

"Here," Fang says, handing me a shirt and shorts, "you can change in my bathroom."

I nod, head to the bathroom, and shed my wet clothes, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My hair's plastered to my forehead, the tie that had fixed my hair into a ponytail having disappeared sometime in the rain. I grab a towel and dry my hair, wiping any of the moisture from my face as well. I sigh, still looking at my reflection, and say to my mirror image, "Well, this has been an eventful evening." I slip on Fang's clean clothes then, taking a deep breath as I slip the oversized shirt on. I smile: it smells of him – a distinguishable and familiar scent.

Fang knocks on the door suddenly, asking, "Max? Are you finished?"

I open the door, holding my wet clothes. He takes them from me and leads me into the hall. He knocks on Iggy's door quietly. When he doesn't answer, he gently pushes the door open, flicking the light on. Iggy's flat out on his bed, eyes closed, breathing in out and deeply: he's sound asleep. A light smile touches Fang's lips as he pulls Iggy's sheets over him. His wet towel and clothes have been left discarded on the floor, so Fang picks them up, turning the light off before joining me in the hall. I try catching his eye, but he seems resigned on avoiding my gaze.

As promised, Miss. Mann has our hot drinks when we come down. Fang gives a short account of our search, including the revelation of Iggy being bullied, omitting Iggy's confession of taking Fang's money. She sits in silence, a look of alarm consistent on her round features.

"Oh, the poor dear," she exclaims, "you're mother will have to got to the school about this. This kind of thing is not on."

"I know," Fang says, "we'll make sure an end is put to all of this. Thanks again, for everything. It's getting late, so don't feel as if you have to stay. Mom should be back soon."

Miss. Mann nods, offering a small smile. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad he's been found and all this bullying will finally be put to an end."

Fang sees her out while I finish my cup. It's 10:15.

I watch him from my seat on the settee, as he waves to Miss. Mann from the door. He runs a hand throughout his hair. It's still damp as he hasn't bothered to dry it off with a towel. I watch his face fall from the small smile to a tired, despondent look. He doesn't know I'm looking, because if he did, I'm sure he'd never let his guard down like this. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, the impassive mask has superseded his previous look of vulnerability.

I don't give thinking a second thought, I just act, getting up from my seat and going over to him, gently tugging him by the hand into the lounge before wrapping him in a hug. He tenses up, surprised by the gesture, but eventually wraps his arms around me. He buries his face in the crook of my neck. I don't know how long we stay like that, but soon we find ourselves rocking gently back and forth.

"We still have that project to do," Fang quietly utters, pulling away slowly from the embrace. I miss his warmth immediately.

I nod. "It's gonna be a long night," I say. "Coffee?"

A small smile flits it way across his face, his eyes shining with…_something. _I just can't discern what.

"I'm going to try and call my mom again," Fang says. "I left her a message before, telling her Iggy was missing. I better let her know we've found him."

I nod, already heading to the kitchen to make two _very_ _strong_ coffees. All the turmoil of the day has left me both physically and mentally spent – we'll both need the caffeine if we are to finish this project tonight.

When I come out with our coffees, I find Fang already spreading our work out on the table. "I managed to get an answer on Mom's phone," he informs me, "a friend of hers answered it. Apparently Mom's crashed out at their place. She never got my message about Iggy being missing – she passed out just after seven."

I frown. _What a great Mother, huh?_

Fang continues: "Mom's not normally this bad. Sometimes, if she's out with one of her drinking buddies, she stops at theirs. I suppose she has some humility by not wanting to come back to her family completely wasted."

I don't know what to say (what can I say?), so I place my hand lightly on his shoulder instead, hoping it's of some comfort.

I want to solve all his problems: I want his dad to be faithful and responsible, I want his mom to be sober, and I want Iggy to not have been victim to such brute bullying.

But life is never simple and it's never easy – it's actually rather ambiguous.

**I hope this chapter was able to somewhat satisfy Fax fans, and that my last line wasn't too cheesy – any comments for this chapter would be really appreciated.**

**I hope no one was too disappointed with there being no extracts from Ambiguity – there will definitely be some in the next chapter.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	20. Presentations and Dads

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride**

I can hear the clattering of pots and pans, the hissing of a boiling kettle. Something's tickling my hand, disturbing my sleep. I want it gone, so I try and bat it away with a flick of my wrist.

"Total," a deep voice says, "leave Max alone."

My eyes snap open and I'm wide awake, remembering where I am and what I should be doing – the English project. But instead, my head's resting against the table, my arm and a spread of papers acting as my pillow. My other arm dangles limply beside me, pointing towards the ground. My hand's wet and sticky. I realise Total's sitting beside my chair then, wagging his tail, his tongue lolling out. I scrunch my nose up in disgust, realising what's spread across my hand: _eeew – dog saliva._

I wipe my slobber-coated hand across my jeans, and a blanket slips from off my shoulders in response to the movement. I frown, not remembering wrapping myself in a blanket.

A small cough startles me into looking up then. Fang's casually leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, a small smile playing on his lips.

"What time is it?" I ask, rubbing my tired eyes.

"Quarter to seven," he answers, "You dozed off around five."

I frown. "You should have woken me. We haven't finished the project yet."

He shrugs. "I finished it. There wasn't much left to do anyway." He grins suddenly, my heart skipping a beat in response. "Anyway, you looked kind of cute, so I didn't want to disturb you."

_WHAT?_

The grin stretches even further across his lips. "You look a lot different with your mouth shut. It makes a change."

I glare and stick my tongue out at him.

Fang laughs, shaking his head. "What? No witty response?" he asks.

I rest my head on my hands and yawn loudly. "It's too early."

"Your standards are slipping, Max. I'm very disappointed."

He covers his mouth with his hand then, suppressing a yawn himself. I frown, noting the dark circles underneath his bloodshot eyes.

"Haven't you slept?" I ask, concern tingeing my tone.

Fang waves off the question and begins shuffling papers together, clearing the table. "I wasn't that tired," he replies, his eyes suddenly locking with mine. "I had a lot on my mind." The look leaves no doubt in my mind that he's referring to more than just the revelation of Iggy being bullied, provoking a blush to blossom on my cheeks.

I break the eye contact, feeling immensely uncomfortable under his intense gaze.

I don't know what to think or feel anymore: I'm in complete disarray. We can't act like the kiss never happened, because it had – it was irrevocable.

But how can I face Sam knowing I've cheated on him? How can I tell him knowing the pain it would cause? I don't want to hurt him.

"Are all our prompt cards finished?" I ask. I don't want to talk about the kiss now – I want to forget it, erase it form my mind because we have a presentation to deliver and a project to submit today. It would also involve talking about mushy feelings – I hate sentimental talks, I loathe emotions that could render me vulnerable, and I don't want to get hurt. But I don't want to hurt Fang either.

Instead of replying to my question, Fang hands me our completed project. I pretend to read it, all too aware of his eyes on me.

Eventually he retreats into the kitchen, leaving me in the dining room alone.

I groan, and rest my head against the back of my chair. _What am I going to do?_

* * *

After dropping Angel and Gazzy off at school (Iggy would be staying at home today – Fang had left him sleeping, having assured Iggy the other night that he wouldn't be returning to school until they'd had a meeting with the school about the bullying), I'd then driven home to quickly change. Fortunately, I'd called Mom last night, giving her a brief outline of the night's unforeseen events, so when I arrive, still clad in Fang's clothes, she isn't too surprised.

Ella, however, takes sheer delight in making quips. "Now Max," she says, as I furiously brush my teeth, "I hope you and Fang weren't getting up to anything."

My eyes go wide, and I'm sure I'm blushing, remembering the kiss.

I shake my head furiously, frowning, as I spit into the sink.

"No!" I shout, "we were working, you know we were. Nothing else, ok?"

"Just admit it, Max," she calls from over her shoulder, exiting the bathroom, "you _love_ him."

I roll my eyes, running a brush through the knots and tangles in my hair. I'm still frowning when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My frown softens as I say to my reflection, "You can't love him, Max. You just can't, ok? Because he's Fang, and your Max, and Max and Fang don't belong together." I put the brush down. "He'd never feel that way about you anyway."

"Nervous?" Fang asks, as we take our seats in class.

"What?" I scoff. I realise I'm ringing my hands together furiously, something I only ever do when I am, in fact, nervous. I sit on them, removing the temptation. "Me nervous? Never," I say, "I'm as cool as a cucumber."

Fang raises an eyebrow, skeptical. "Really? 'Cause you look like you're going to throw up."

I elbow him in the arm. Hard.

His eyes widen briefly in surprise, his features taking on a frown as he rubs his arm, feigning hurt.

After a long moment, he breaks into my thoughts and says, "You'll do fine. You always do."

I turn to him then, a small smile on my lips. "Thanks."

The slight upturn of his lips grows into that annoyingly sardonic grin of his. "Of course," he says, "I'll be by your side, so nothing can go wrong, and we'll do amazingly brilliant."

I roll my eyes, about to issue some sarcastic retort when Mr. Smith calls, "Nick and Max? Are you ready to deliver your presentation?"

* * *

"And so," Fang says, "the English language has gone through numerous developments…"

"…from Chaucer," I continue, "to the evocative works of Shakespeare and then Austen…"

"…to Hemingway and Miller, and so many more," Fang finishes.

His eyes flit to mine briefly, and he winks, a slight upturn to his lips. The presentation had gone off without a hitch…it had been perfect. We so rocked!

An applause swiftly follows, resounding across the room. Mr. Smith is smiling (shocking, right?) and he nods at us from the back of the classroom, seemingly pleased.

I'm sure I'm beaming when we take our seats, and I'm sure the smile still remains when Mr. Smith declares that class is over.

"Max and Nick?" Mr. Smith calls, waving us over with a podgy hand. We pause before exiting the room, and in unison, turn round.

"I'd just like to say," Mr. Smith begins, "that your presentation was very good. Brilliant, in fact."

I bump my shoulder against Fang's, smiling.

"When I first put you both together," he continues, "I did have a nagging worry that you'd clash with each other. During my lessons, you both offer interesting interpretations, but those views have always tended to clash with each other. I feared this partnership may not work, but it did. Extraordinarily well." He claps his hands together, and smiles. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how well you've done. I look forward to reading the rest of your project."

I practically skip out of the room, overjoyed, throwing my arms around Fang as soon as the door closes behind us. We both tense up for a moment, neither one of us having expected me to give such a spontaneous gesture. But then his arms encircle, enveloping me in his warmth. He picks me up suddenly, my feet just skimming the floor, and I let out a very un–Max-like giggle as he spins us round and round.

Finally, when we're both still and my feet are firmly on the ground, he leans his forehead against mine. My arms are still around his neck, while his are still firmly placed on my waist. I suck in a breath and my heart skips a beat. His eyes have taken on a perpetual depth: they've darkened, the usual golden flecks absent. I blame sleep deprivation for my next actions, I really do.

I tilt my head to the side and my lips meet his. The kiss is sweet and gentle, our lips moving slowly in sync. His hands gradually move up from my waist to my back, where they finally come to rest at the back of my neck. A tumult of emotions rise inside me: I love it; I love the feel of his lips moving against my own, and I love the feeling of his hands running through my hair. And yet it's all so wrong because I'm with Sam, not Fang, and…oh geez, Fang and I are _kissing._

I pull away from him, suddenly and sharply, colliding with the wall. His eyes widen momentarily, regarding me carefully. He bites his lip and he takes a step towards me. I move from off the wall, circling him, so that his back now faces the wall, while I face the vast expanse of the hall. "Max," he begins, his voice soft, "we need to talk about this."

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

"We can't pretend nothing is going on," Fang continues, annoyed.

"Nothing _is_ going on," I snap. Hurt flashes in his eyes, it's brief and fleeting, but it's enough to send a pang of guilt shooting through me.

"Are you trying to tell me, that when we've kissed, it's meant nothing to you?" he asks quietly.

"Um…I…um." I begin to ring my hands together, wishing I could be anywhere but here, wishing I could immediately revoke my actions. "I've cheated on Sam," I finally state, "and he doesn't deserve that. I shouldn't have done that…it's not fair on him."

My phone suddenly rings then, and I've never been so thrilled or relieved as to accept a call in my life.

"Hello?" I say, turning my back on Fang.

"Max, it's Mom. You need to come home immediately, honey."

A knot forms in my stomach in response to the urgency in her voice. "Is something wrong?" I ask.

When she doesn't respond, I continue, "Are you and Ella ok?"

"We're both fine. Don't worry. It's nothing really, but I just need you to get back as soon as possible, ok?"

"Yeah," I answer, "I'm coming back now."

I turn to Fang then. He's schooled his expression: I can't discern any emotions, and know that I'm the cause for the mask of stolidity.

"I've got to get home," I say, "Mom wants me back straight away."

He nods.

"If you want a lift back…"

"No," he interrupts, "I'm going to stay here for a bit. I better let Phil and JJ and the others know that you can't make practice."

"Thanks," I say, "let them know I'm sorry."

He nods stiffly, and I'm surprised at the urge I have to go over and hug him, just so that I can try and make him feel better, although I'm sure the contact would have just the adverse affect right now.

"Bye, Fang."

* * *

_An extract from Chapter 18 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha lingers outside the doorway of the care home. David is beside her, watching her carefully as she repeatedly wrings her hands together. She's nervous because she hasn't visited her Dad in over three weeks, and she's worried as to whether his condition has deteriorated further since her last visit. But would more frequent visits really matter? He wouldn't recognise her as his daughter anyway. His condition has slipped to such a stage now that he no longer recognises any of his family: they're all strangers._

"_Should we go inside?" David asks softly, gently placing his hand on Samantha's shoulder. She starts, surprised at the sudden contact._

"_Y-yeah," she stutters._

_Tentatively, she pushes the door open, holding it open for David. His comforting hand never leaves her shoulder, until it slips lower and captures her hand with his. He squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back in response._

_A nurse greets them straight away, asking who they are here to see. "I'm here to see my dad," she says, "Jack Borne."_

"_Oh," she says, "he's just inside the main room. He's having a good day today. He'll be pleased to have visitors."_

_Samantha gives a small smile and nods her head in thanks. A 'good day' just meant he hadn't yet become distressed to such an extent that he'd had to be restrained and induced with further drugs to calm him down. His loss of memory always frustrated him, especially when he couldn't remember the most trivial of things: where he was and his name. His Alzheimer's had not only rendered him absent of his memories though, they'd also brought hallucinations of a man dressed in black, who Jack believed wanted to harm him. Of course, no such man existed, but Jack could not be persuaded otherwise._

_Samantha knows where she's going, and so gently tugs David by the hand with her. David's eyes roam everywhere and anywhere. He's never entered a home before, and is surprised at how frail and sickly some of the people appear. Not everyone appears so sapped of life, however. He notes a man with grey thinning hair completing warm up stretches, until finally a carer realises what he's doing, tut-ting, "Think of your back, Alfred. The doctor told you not to outdo yourself."_

_Samantha stops suddenly, and David realises they've entered the main room. Worn chairs and dilapidated sofas are placed around the centre of the room. A TV is set at the back of the room, and the volume has been turned up so high, it drowns out the conversations going on across the room. Books and magazines are spread across tables dotted around the outskirts of the room. The residents lounge in chairs, quietly conversing and watching the TV._

_Gently nudging David to gain his attention, Samantha points to a man in the far corner who sits in a recliner, absently looking outside. David notes a couple of discerning traits between Samantha and her father, which hint at their family ties. They both have the same nose and the same stubborn chin, he realises._

"_Hi," Samantha says timidly. "Do you mind if we sit here?" she asks her father, Jack._

_Jack's head snaps towards them. He hadn't heard them approach, but now that he has, frowns. "What did you say?" he asks._

"_Do you mind if we sit here?" she repeats._

_He shrugs. "I don't mind."_

_They all sit in silence for a moment, neither sure what to say. When David notices the book beside Jack, he asks, "What were you reading? Is it a good book?"_

_Jack frowns again, and a look of utter confusion distorts his features. Confusion swirls inside washed-out-blue eyes. Samantha has seen that look so many times before, that it breaks her heart._

"_I don't know," he says, "I don't know why it's there. I don't think it's mine." Jack's eyes suddenly lock on Samantha's then. "Who are you?"_

_Samantha swallows hard, trying not to show how his words hit her much like some blunt force. "My name's Samantha, and this," she points to David, "is my friend David."_

_He nods, seemingly satisfied, until he asks, "Why are you here?"_

"_We've just stopped by to visit someone," Samantha replies._

_The lines of confusion converge on Jack's forehead once again. "Visiting? Where are we?" His hands go to his head, and he run his hands forcefully across his scalp, as if he has an excruciating headache and is trying to rub away the ache. He scrunches his eyes tightly together. "Why don't I know this? Why can't I remember?"_

"_It's ok," Samantha soothes._

"_No, it's not," he suddenly shouts._

"_It's ok, Jack," David says, trying to calm him down._

_Jack's hands tighten in his hair. "Why are you calling me Jack?" he asks, his voice rising in volume. "Who_ are_ you?"_

_The commotion has caught the attention of a carer from across the room. She comes over and crouches beside Jack. "Are you ok?" she asks._

_Jack furiously shakes his head and begins crying, "I don't now who they are."_

_She looks to Samantha and David, her eyes sympathetic and sorry. "Perhaps you should come back another day?"_

_Samantha nods tightly, biting her lip to keep the flood of emotions locked inside her. This had been one of her worst visits: she'd barely said anything, and yet it had been enough to send her father into disarray, upsetting him to such an extent that he'd been on the verge of hysteria._

_Once outside, David pulls Samantha into a hug, stroking her hair comfortingly. "He's forgotten all about us," she whispers, "He can't remember me. He's forgotten that I'm his daughter. I know it wasn't his choice to forget us, and that he could do nothing to stop himself from leaving us. I just miss him so much."_

* * *

When Mom opens the door, her face is morose. She tries to give me a small smile, but I can tell it's forced.

"Max?" The voice comes from further inside the house. It's a rough, gravelly voice, and one I haven't heard for almost twelve years.

The owner of the voice appears in the doorway then, and my heart sinks. For the second time that day, a dozen thoughts and feelings flood through me, all conflicting and most unwelcome. In the doorway stands my father, Jeb, the man who had cheated on my mother, left us for another woman, and who had severed all contact with us just over ten years ago when he'd left the country.

My heart pounds loudly in my ears. My eyes are wide, and I'm sure my mouth is open wide, agape.

I have a crinkled Polaroid picture of him in my old photo album. I'd take it out from time to time when I was younger, trying to revive hazy memories of a man that had been such a fleeting part of my life. The picture had been taken not long after I was born. He'd had a full mop of mousy-brown hair then, but now, his hair has thinned to such an extent that his scalp is clearly discernible on top. He's not as tall and intimidating as I remember either: I'd last seen him when I was six years old, before he'd packed up and left to go to Canada with his new wife. I take in his aged features, and am disdained to note the physical attributes I'd inherited from him: my pale complexion and hair that still holds blond tints, which had once been present in Jeb's hair also, until age had took hold of him and rendered the strands a dull brown and grey.

"Oh, I've missed you so much," Jeb says. "You've grown into such a beautiful young woman."

I take a step back, as if slapped, his words having much the same effect. If he wants me to tell him that I 'missed' him, he has another thing coming, because how can you miss someone you barely have any recollection of?

"What the hell are you doing here?" I shout. Confusion and shock give way to boiling rage: I'm livid, and I want him to hurt, just like we have.

"I came to see my daughter," he explains, surprise barely tangible in his voice.

"I'm not your daughter," I scoff. "Any parenting titles you once had were stripped when you left us."

"I'm your father," he protests, more forcefully this time.

"No," I declare, furiously shaking my head, "I don't have a father. I have a Mom and a sister, and they're the only family I have. You're just Jeb…a lying cheating bastard, who was naïve enough to think that you could just come back here, and I'd welcome you back with open arms." I give a bitter laugh. "You were wrong, Jeb. I…_we_ don't want you here."

He takes a step towards me, and I take one back in response. "I'm trying to make amends," he says. "I want to apologies…I want to make it up to you."

I give another bitter laugh, shaking my head in astonishment. "I haven't heard from you in over ten years. Why do you think I'd suddenly want to hear from you now?"

"I'm back in the states," he says, "and I wanted to see my only daughter. I though about you everyday, Max. I never forgot about you."

"Yes, you did. You forgot all about us," I say through clenched teeth. I'm annoyed and immensely disdained to feel my eyes brimming with tears. I look up with my glassy eyes, refusing to let him see how much he's upsetting me. "I'm surprised you remembered you had a daughter."

"How could I forget you? I wanted to call you, I really did," Jeb continues, "but I didn't think you'd want to hear from me. I'd already hurt both your mother and you, and I was worried I'd be doing more damage by staying in contact than by just leaving you both to get on with your lives…by letting you move on without me. I'd already hurt you both so much."

I look to my mom then, noting the tight clench of her jaw, her firm grip on the side table. She wants him gone, just like I do.

"Mom's raised me on her own, brilliantly, for all of these years. I certainly don't need you now," I say coldly. Jeb didn't have to leave us, but he did. He'd gone on his own accord.

My mom smiles at me warmly, touched by my kind words of her. "I told you I didn't think she'd be interested," Mom says curtly, directing her words at Jeb.

He looks towards the ground, despondent. "You have a brother," he continues, unperturbed, "well, half-brother. His name's Ari. He'll be eight in a couple of weeks."

"So?" I say.

"Maybe you'd like to meet him?" he asks, somewhat hopefully.

"No."

His face breaks into a look of helplessness and desperation: he's deeply dismayed by the rejection, but it's tough, because I'm not going to accept him back. It's just too late. He'd left us because he no longer wanted to be with us: he'd had a choice, and he'd chosen to start a new family elsewhere.

Jeb rummages through his pockets, until finally he comes across what he's looking for, and holds out a piece of paper towards me. "Please take this, Max," he pleads, "it has my new address and phone number on. Call me, please."

I shake my head, stubborn, and fold my arms.

"Just take it. You might change your mind."

_Not likely._

When I don't budge, he sighs and places the piece of paper on the side table in the hall.

"It was good to see you both again," Jeb says. "I hope you'll call me soon, Max."

I don't respond, and neither does Mom. There is nothing left to say. He'd left us. And he'd forgotten all about us.


	21. Unrequited Love

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

I'm lying down, spread out on my bed, listening to some crappy romance song that has just sprung on the radio. _Ugh!_ I don't want some slow song that will leave me contemplating Sam and Fang, I want some heavy rock piece that will stop thought altogether. I want to forget Fang's kiss, and I want my dad's unexpected and unwanted arrival to be absolved from my mind completely.

After Jeb had left, and Mom and I had both shared a protracted, comforting hug, I'd gone to my room to lose myself in Ambiguity. I was hoping the vicarious experiences would allow me to escape my own problems for a while, but that had not been the case. I'd been severely dismayed to discover how Samantha's turmoil over her father mirrored my own: Jack had forgotten about his family, much like Jeb had. But the most discerning contrast, however, was that Samantha's father had no choice in leaving his family, while Jeb had – he'd _voluntarily_ left us.

I bury my face in my pillow then, thinking of how Samantha and David's relationship paralleled Fang's and mine. In the beginning, she perceived him as a nuisance and a pest: a provocateur with whom she should avoid. Only now, she treated him as her friend and confidant; a person who she relied on so heavily, that the dependency made her feel uneasy. I'd become reliant on Fang as well, even if it was just for the trivial things: to make me smile, to make me laugh, to offer a comforting gesture…

I pick up Ambiguity, and flick to the page I'd just read.

_Samantha pulls her coat around her tightly, futilely trying to ward off the bitter chill from the cutting wind. David stands close beside her as they wait for the bus, his hands dug deep inside the pockets of his trench coat. She looks him up and down, admiring the way in which the coat snugly fits him, emphasising his broad shoulders. David notices her stare, and turns to her with a small smile. He realises she's shivering, and so removes his hands from his pockets to run them up and down her arms, trying to infuse some warmth into her slight figure._

_Warmth flares up and down her arms. He takes a step closer and puts his arms around her, holding her to him._

"_I'm a lot warmer now," Samantha mumbles, her voice muffled by his coat._

"_That's good," David chirps._

"_You can let me go."_

"_But if I do, you'll be cold and begin shivering and that wouldn't be good because you might catch a cold." He'd said it all in one, quick breath. Samantha swallows her laughter. He's such a chatterbox, and his reasoning is so ludicrous, she thinks._

_Samantha begins to pull away from the embrace. "I think I'll risk it."_

_He eventually complies, relinquishing his hold on her. She misses his warmth instantly, but when he'd held her, her heart had begun to pound so loudly and at such a pace, that she feared he'd feel it through her thin coat._

_Her eyes dart away from his, not wanting him to see the blush that's gradually blossoming on her cheeks. He's already caught sight of it though, and it warms his heart to know that he can have that affect on her. It gives him the confidence to be brash._

_David gently cups the side of her face with his hand, forcing her eyes to meet his. He leans in close, slowly, brushing his nose along hers before placing a light kiss on her lips. His other hand moves to her waist, pulling her closer, before their lips meet again and begin moving in synchronisation. He parts his lips slightly, and Samantha loses herself completely in the moment, throwing her arms around his neck._

_Eventually their kisses slow, until their lips leave each other's completely. David rests his forehead against Samantha's, his breathing ragged, a broad smile gracing his lips. The upturn of his lips, however, falls when he notes Samantha's frown and the way her eyes refuse to meet his. She pulls away, all too soon for his liking, and turns her back on him._

"_Samantha," David says gently, "turn around. Please."_

_She remains obstinate, her back still to him. She can't bring herself to look at his face, to see the hurt…the confusion._

"_I'm sorry," Samantha utters, barely discernibly, "I shouldn't have done that."_

_David walks towards her, forcing her to look at him as he turns her round. She hadn't expected to feel his touch, and the sudden contact causes her to let out a startled yelp._

_A pang of pain shoots through him as he sees the confliction on her face. She bites her lip, rapidly blinking back tears._

"_Don't say that," David whispers, "don't tell me you felt nothing."_

_She takes a shuddering breath, schooling her expression, as she fixes him with an impassive mask. She shakes her head in response, and David's heart breaks in that instant._

_He shakes his head furiously, hurt and disbelieving. Had he imagined her blushes? Were all those signs a fabrication of his mind? Had he_ convinced_ himself that she was attracted to him?_

"_Be honest with me, Samantha. Have you never felt anything towards me? Did I imagine it all?"_

_For a moment her composure threatens to shatter, and she fears she'll confess everything to him: telling him how she really felt; telling him that she just couldn't initiate a relationship with him...not now, not with everything going on at home. Her life was already in disarray, and any intimate relationship would only complicate matters. But how could she tell him that, when she knew he would only perceive it as a minor inconvenience? He'd persist, she knew he would, and perhaps, in the end, she would cave in, and they'd be together for a time. But what kind of relationship would it be when she was working and looking after her brother, dealing with a drunken mother and visiting her father. She barely had time for herself, so how would she make time for him? He didn't need to get caught up in her problems, anyway. It just wouldn't be fair._

"_Just say it, Samantha," David demands, "tell me you don't care about me. Tell me….you _don't_ love me."_

_Her breath hitches. Love?_

_David's still gripping her shoulders, his eyes bearing deep into hers, searching for what he hoped will ease the ache in his heart._

"_I love you, Samantha," he declares. "Don't turn me away because you think family problems are going to make this relationship complicated, ok? Because it won't. I'll _make_ it work."_

_A rush of happiness floods through her in response to his words. She expels a long breath, surprised at the emotion swimming in his eyes._

_Life is so unfair, she muses, because not only will she be hurting herself with her next actions, but she will also be hurting David. She just hopes he'll get over her, and soon, because he deserves better._

_She doesn't speak until she's sure she has complete control of her emotions, and her voice will not waver._

_She takes a deep breath, and says, "I don't love you."_

I close the book and frown. Samantha and David were 'meant' to be together: that had been the general consensus of the class, and, eventually, even my own opinion.

So why was Samantha being so stubborn? Why couldn't she just put herself first for once? Yes, her actions were selfless, as she wanted to put her family first, and that was admiral. But surely there was a way for them to still be together?

My phone suddenly vibrates. I pick it up, and find my stomach sinking as I discover that it's from Sam. It reads: _Hey Max. We haven't gone out in a couple of weeks, so wanna grab something to eat? I could pick you up in a couple of hours? Xxx_

I text back a short reply: _Yeah, sounds good. See you soon._

Letting out a long sigh, I get up from off my bed, hoping that I'm making the right decision.

* * *

"Hey," Sam says, greeting me with a peck on the cheek as I slouch into his car.

I give a small smile and click my seatbelt into place. He raises an eyebrow, picking up on my somewhat dispirited mood.

"So," I say, trying to infuse some optimism into my voice, "where are we going?"

The frown disappears from his face, only to be replaced by a bright smile. "There's a burger place in town. Sound good?"

I'm really hungry (I never thought I'd say that), but nod anyway.

The drive is thankfully short, as a tense ambience soon settles around us, making it incredibly uncomfortable.

We enter the restaurant in silence, take our seats in silence, and read through the menus in silence. I find myself unable to read the delicacies on the menu, and instead find myself ringing my hands furiously together. I sit on them in the end, surprised to find Sam scrutinising me carefully when I look up.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

My stomach drops. There's no point in prolonging the inevitable: I should just tell him.

"Um…I," I begin, "I like you a lot Sam…"

He holds up a hand, stopping me in mid-flow.

"You don't have to say it," Sam mumbles. "You're breaking up with me."

The forlorn look on his face threatens to break my resolve: I never wanted to hurt him.

My face softens, and I find myself reaching across the table to touch his hand. He removes his arms from off the table, however, and forces a somewhat bitter laugh. "I suppose I was a little naïve in hoping you'd stay with me," he says. "You don't look at me in the same way you do Fang." A small smile quirks his lips. "You become so animated when you talk with him. You smile a lot, too…only, it's different from your normal one. You seem to reserve that smile only for him." Sam's eyes leave mine then, and my stomach plunges even deeper. "I'd hoped, in time, you'd look at me like that. Guess it just wasn't meant to be."

I lean across the table, trying to catch his eye. Sam is such a nice guy, and he deserves so much better than me.

"Sam," I say, waiting for his eyes to lock back on mine, "I'm so sorry, you deserve better. You'll find someone else though, I promise."

He gives a short nod, the look of despondency still ever present on his face. "We're still friends though, right?" he asks, trying to force a smile back onto his lips.

"Of course!"

"And you'll still be our pianist?"

I pause. I don't want my presence to be awkward for him: I don't want to hurt him anymore than I absolutely have to. "Are you sure you still want me playing with you guys?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Well…yeah, you're one of the best pianists I know. And we're still friends, so…"

I smile again, getting up from my seat, and place a kiss on his cheek. "You really are a great guy, Sam," I say.

* * *

I'm curled up on the settee, aimlessly flicking through the channels on the TV. It's Sunday, two days after I'd broken up with Sam.

"Hey, Max," Mom chirps, bringing in a vase of flowers to place in the window.

I give a feeble wave, and turn my attention back to the TV.

Mom comes to sit beside me, a frown on her face. "Is everything ok, Max?" she asks.

"Of course." My response had been immediate, and lacked the conviction I'd desired to instil in my voice.

"Because you know, I'm always here if you want to talk," she continues.

I nod, and begin nervously rubbing my hands together.

"How was you date with Sam the other night?" she asks, still persistent.

Oh. I still have yet to tell Mom and Ella that we are, in fact, no longer together. I've been forestalling the moment, not prepared for the questions of _why_ I'd broken up with him. I'm not prepared to tell them that I'd kissed someone else…_twice_.

"Um," I begin, "we're not actually together anymore."

She frowns again, and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Was it a mutual thing?" she asks, "Or do I need to beat him up?"

I smile at her latter utterance. "No," I say, "I ended it."

She nods. "Because of Fang."

I jerk back, surprised at her words. "No!" I exclaim. Heat instantly floods my cheeks. Mom's wearing that knowing look (it's the one all Mom's seem to have when they know you're lying), leaving no doubt in my mind that she doesn't believe me. At all.

"Are you sure there's nothing going on between you and Fang?" she persists.

"Positive."

She watches my expression carefully for a few more moments before nodding, standing up, and leaving me with my thoughts.

* * *

Nerves instantly flood me as I enter the classroom, my eyes instantly raking each of the students' faces for Fang's. I'm somewhat relieved when I note he isn't here yet. I'm not looking forward to the awkwardness that's bound to settle around us: we still have yet to discuss the kiss…um, _kisses._

My apprehension, however, also stems from the fact that we will be receiving results for an exam taken a couple of weeks ago today. I thought I'd done…ok, but just couldn't be sure.

I take in the worried looks of my peers: some are visibly sweating. It looks like I'm not the only one freaking out about this exam.

"Right," Mr. Smith bellows, "I suppose you're all expecting your results." He pulls out a dozen manila envelopes, and waves them like a fan in front of his face. "They're right here, and will be distributed to you shortly. Let's just wait for the remaining students to arrive, shall we."

I tap my nails furiously against the desk, impatient.

Finally, the remaining students arrive, including Fang. He refuses to meet my eye as he takes his seat beside me, instead looking straight ahead.

"I already know your grades for this exam," Mr. Smith declares. "I was immensely pleased with some, and extremely disappointed with others."

As he hands Fang his envelope, Mr. Smith frowns, his lips, however, smiling when he hands me mine. I rip it open furiously, my smile broad and big when I see the A printed in the right hand corner. I feel Fang stiffen beside me. I glance over, trying to conspicuously look at his paper. It reads: D. _What? How could Fang fail the exam? He's Fang, for God's sake! He _never_ fails exams._

"Class will be cancelled for today," Mr. Smith declares. "Some of you will want to celebrate, while the majority of you, I'm sure, will want to go off and cry." His eyes train on Fang then. "Nick? Can you wait behind?"

Fang nods tightly.

"You ok?" I ask.

"Brilliant," Fang replies absentmindedly. He gets up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and walks over to Mr. Smith.

I grudgingly file out with the rest of the students. But instead of walking down the corridor and out the doors, I press my ear against the door, straining to hear the faint conversation.

"What's happened, Nick?" Mr. Smith asks. "Your project with Max was good. But this result, is not. You've been on a downward spiral for a while now: you've been handing in essays late, and I'm still waiting for that creative writing piece you promised me last week."

"I'm sorry," Fang mumbles.

"You're more than capable of doing well in my classes. So why aren't you? Is there something wrong at home?"

"No."

"Are you just being idle then? I won't tolerate slothfulness from my students."

"I'll do better."

"Yes, you will. I don't want to have to fail you at the end of this year, Nick. But if you don't buck up your ideas, I'll have no choice."

"I understand."

There's a long pause, and then Mr. Smith orders, "Just go. And I expect that work you owe me to be on my desk by tomorrow."

There's another pause, and then the door suddenly swings open, knocking me back. Fang comes out, his eyes widening infinitesimally when he sees me.

"Max," he says, "were you eaves dropping?"

"What?" I feign hurt. "No, of course not. I was…just looking for a penny I'd dropped."

He rolls his eyes. "You're a lousy liar." He pauses. "How much did you hear?"

I shrug. "All of it. Why didn't you tell me you were struggling with the work?"

Fang begins to walk down the hall, and I follow close behind. "I'm not struggling," he states, "I'm just a bit behind."

"Then why are you behind?"

"Just am."

"Maybe it's a good thing Sam's hand has healed then. You need the time to catch up, and quintet practice takes up a lot of time."

"Yeah," Fang begins, "you're glad Sam's back playing with you guys. You certainly won't need me anymore."

I abruptly stop. "What?" I exclaim. "You know I don't think of it like that. You _knew _you're playing with us was only temporary."

He waves off my response with a flick of his hand. He turns his back on me, and walks down the hall, leaving me extremely agitated and stupefied.

* * *

Fang isn't in class the next day. And Mr. Smith is more than a little vexed at his tardiness, asking me several times as to whether I know his whereabouts. I answer truthfully: _I have no idea._

As soon as class ends, I'm out the door and dialling Fang's number. There's no response. _Damn._ I let out an aggravated sigh, and, annoyed and frustrated, drive to his house.

I have to knock several times before the door finally creaks open, _slowly._ Angel's head pokes through the door, a smile stretching her lips upwards when she realises it's me.

"Max!" she exclaims. "I'm so glad you're here. Fang went charging off ages ago, and hasn't come back."

"What?" I ask, startled. "When? _Why?_"

The door's suddenly pulled open wider, and the tall, lanky figure of Iggy appears behind her.

"Max? Is that you?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "What's this about Fang 'charging off'?"

Iggy runs a frustrated hand across his face, ushering me inside with his other hand. His white cane clanks across the wall as he feels his way into the living room, and takes a seat by the door. Gazzy sits, forlorn, on the settee with his knees drawn up to his chin. I sit beside him and pat him on the back. Angel perches beside me, clutching Celeste close to her chest.

"We met with the Principal this morning," Iggy begins, "we, being Mom and Fang. I told the Principal all about the bullying, but he just said that they couldn't expel Dean and his friends because it had taken place out of school. The best they could do was suspend them. Fang wasn't pleased." He pauses, running an agitated hand throughout his hair. "When we walked out of the school, Dean and his friends were there. They made some comments about me being a blind idiot…called me Igiot…stuff like that. Fang went to lunge for them, but Mom pulled him back. As soon as we got home though, and Mom had left to go to the supermarket, Fang was back out the door. I think he went back to the school, to go after Dean and the others."

_Damn…damn…damn. Why did Fang have to be so rash? Why couldn't he think before leaping in with his fists?_

"Has he got his phone on him?" I ask. "I tried calling him earlier, but he didn't pick up."

"He left his phone at home," Gazzy declares, pointing to the phone on the fireplace.

"The idiot," I mutter, quietly from under my breath.

Suddenly there's a quick rap at the door. The door handle is yanked down, but because the chain had been put back on, it does not open. I go to the door, open it, and let out a long breath when I see that it's Fang.

His eyebrows twitch up in surprise before he winces at the facial movement. There's a large, purple bruise blossoming over his right eye. Dried blood is smeared across his nose and chin. It's on his shirt, too.

"Fang!" Angel exclaims, running over to give him a hug. He winces as she winds her arms around him.

"Hey, Ange," he soothes, patting her on the back.

She relinquishes her grip, and pulls back. "You're hurt," she declares. "What happened? Did you fight Dean and those mean boys?"

Fang stumbles through the doorway, his hand outstretched to help him to the lounge. I attempt to wind an arm around his shoulders, trying to help him, but he only shrinks away from my touch.

"Please tell me you didn't fight them?" Iggy pleads.

"Dean got what he deserved," Fang states. "I told him to leave you alone. I'm sure they will now."

I frown. "You didn't take them all on, did you?"

He shakes his head imperceptibly, and winces once again at the slight movement. "No. I only found Dean."

"Why the hell did you do that, Fang?" Iggy shouts. "You'll have just made him mad. He's going to be ten times worse than before now."

Fang's face drops, his eyes pleading. "He needed to be taught a lesson. He shouldn't be able to get away with what he's been doing to you."

"And now he's going to be even worse, because he'll think that I sent my big brother after him. He'll take it out on me, and he'll make my life an even bigger hell than it was before."

"Iggy…."

"No, Fang. You've just made everything a bloody lot worse. Thanks a bunch."

Iggy turns his back on us then, his cane whacking against the doorframe before his heavy footfalls can be heard on the stairs.

Fang looks stricken.

"Are you ok, Fang?" Gazzy asks in a timid voice.

Fang's face softens as he ruffles Gazzy's hair. "I'm fine, Gaz."

"Come on," I say. "I'll help you get cleaned up."

I don't wait for a response, instead grabbing his hand, tugging him up the stairs to his bathroom. He doesn't resist, and surprisingly, complies with my efforts.

He sits on his bed as I go to fetch a cloth, rinse it under water, and dig around in his cupboards for some antiseptic cream.

When I have all I need, I crouch on the floor down beside him, delicately dabbing at the blood crusted on his nose and upper lip. He breathes in deeply, refusing to show any sign that he's in pain. Occasionally though, his eye would twitch as I'd wipe over a blossoming bruise.

"Why are you here?" Fang asks quietly.

I'm not expecting the question, and falter for a moment. "Mr. Smith wanted me to give you our next assignment. " _It wasn't a lie, but it could have waited until tomorrow. _"Why'd you miss class?" I ask.

"Needed to go with Mom to see the Principal."

"We had a morning _and _afternoon class," I say. "You weren't in either. Iggy said your appointment was in the afternoon. You could have come to the morning class."

Fang pulls away from me, shifting back further on his bed. "Needed to make sure Mom remained sober for the meeting."

My face softens, and the hand bearing the cloth drops to my side. He looks away from me, towards the ground.

There's still blood on his face: under his chin and smeared above his lips. He'd gotten a bloody nose, but fortunately, it didn't appear to be broken.

I sit beside him on the bed, and gently turn his head towards me. I wipe the wet cloth just under his nose, removing the blood. He still refuses to meet my eyes though, instead, preferring to look at a spot just above my head.

The blood's gone, but there's water now glistening on his lips and chin. Slowly, I wipe my finger across his upper lip, removing the excess water. He shivers, and his hand snaps forward, stilling mine.

"Don't," he whispers, his eyes finally locking on mine.

It's only then that I realise how close we are: our thighs are touching, and our noses are just mere inches apart.

I look up, feeling his gaze. His eyes hold that perpetual depth again, and like magnets, they draw me in, closer, closer. Until finally, my lips meet his in a hesitant kiss.

His hand suddenly lets go of my wrist, moving to my back, where he rubs slow circles in between my shoulder blades, leaving trails of heat. His other hand moves to my neck, where he buries it in my hair. Our lips begin moving at a faster pace then, and suddenly I'm on my back, and Fang's hovering over me, propped up on his elbows.

"Fang? Fang? Where are you? Max?" The voice of Angel startles us, and we jump apart as if shocked. Seconds later she walks in and frowns. "Why's both your hair messy?" The frown grows on her forehead as she looks at Fang. "Why's your shirt undone Fang?"

I'm blushing bright red, I'm sure, and Fang's cheeks seem to have taken on much the same colour.

"My shirt's got blood on it, Ange," he explains, "I was just about to change it."

She nods, seemingly satisfied. "Ok. Do we have anything to eat? Me and Gazzy are really hungry."

Fang's lips quirk into a small smile. "Mom will be back from the supermarket soon, ok? So we'll all eat then."

She smiles brightly. "Okey dokey. Will Max be staying?"

"No," he says, "she has to go."

"Ok. We'll see you soon though, right Max?" she asks.

I glance at Fang. "I hope so."

"Good. Come downstairs soon? We haven't seen you much lately, Fang."

His face falls at her latter words, and he nods his head, forcing a smile onto his lips.

As soon as the door closes behind us, Fang runs a hand throughout his hair, emphasising its disheveled look. His back is to me, so I can't see his face, and know what he's thinking.

"Fang," I say, hesitant.

"I shouldn't have done that, Max," he mutters. "I shouldn't have kissed you."

I suck in a breath, and my stomach sinks. I'd realised it all too late: I realised I _loved_ him all too late. And now he's moved on, and it's all my fault.

"Why shouldn't you have done that?" I demand. "It's not like it's the first time we've kissed. Are you trying to tell me that _they_ were mistakes, too?"

He turns to me then, wearing that annoyingly furiating mask of stolidity. "I'm sorry," he says, "I shouldn't have led you on."

I gape, speechless, and look towards the ceiling with glassy eyes, hating myself for the tears that are congealing there. I blink them away rapidly, determined to not let him see how much his words are hurting me.

"You know," I begin, and force a laugh, "I broke up with Sam."

"You shouldn't have. Not for me."

"I didn't do it for you. He didn't deserve a girlfriend that cheated on him. He deserved better."

"And so do you," Fang says.

I sniff and tuck my hands deep inside my jacket pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. "For a while there, I thought you might, um…" I pause, not sure whether I should continue.

He raises a quizzical eyebrow. I shake my head, deciding not to elaborate. I feel like I've been punched. Hard. And there's nothing more I want than to retreat home, bury myself under the covers, and never come out.

"I better go," I mumble, looking anywhere but at him.

"Yeah," he agrees, "thanks, for everything."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and leave the house without a word.

**Sorry that it's taken me so long to update this week. School has had to take priority as I've had coursework (5 pieces!) to submit.**

**I hope this chapter was able to effectively hint at why Fang rejects Max, which is explained in Samantha's reasoning as to why she declared to David that she doesn't love him. I also hope no one is too disappointed or annoyed at me for postponing Max and Fang's relationship, once again.**

**The next chapter will also take just over a week to complete, because tomorrow, I will be going on a school trip to France (woo hoo!).**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	22. Lost Opportunities and Lost Things

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Wow. 301 reviews! Thank you, they're really appreciated.**

I've always considered myself indestructible, stout hearted, and not someone who can be easily broken. And yet here I am, buried beneath my quilt, curled up into a ball, crying.

I'd managed to keep the waterworks at bay when I'd first come back from Fang's house, issuing a quick "hey" to Mom and Ella before running upstairs and diving into bed. That had been almost an hour ago now, and yet the tears are still coming and the ache is still there. Fang's words keep ricocheting in my mind: _"I shouldn't have led you on."_

I can't believe how stupid I've been, believing that he cared for me, that he might…_love_ me. But that had been all a ruse, a sick joke, and I'd fallen for it so spectacularly. I'd fallen for _him_ so spectacularly.

"Max? Dinner's ready," Mom calls.

I duck my head out from beneath the covers and shout, somewhat feebly: "Not hungry."

There's a moment of silence before I hear rapid, successive footfalls on the stairs. There's a knock at my door, and before I can even respond, my door's flung open and my mom's standing in the doorway.

She takes in my haggard appearance: the red eyes and the dry tear tracks, and comes to sit beside me on the bed. She strokes my hair, brushing my fringe back from off my forehead.

"What's wrong, honey?" she asks.

"Nothing," I choke out.

She continues: "Something's wrong. I can tell you've been crying, and you_ never_ refuse dinner. Some_thing_ or some_one_ has upset you."

I force a smile and she frowns. "I'm fine," I insist.

The frown is still there, and she fixes me with a look I've given so many times before: the _tell-me-what's-going-on-now-or-else _look.

"It's nothing really," I say, "just stuff."

She remains unperturbed, fixing me with the look. I sigh and sit up, bringing my legs up and wrapping my arms around them, resting my chin on top of my knees.

"I've recently misunderstood a couple of things," I explain, "and I just feel really stupid about it."

Her eyebrows rise up in confusion. Grudgingly realising I'll have to elaborate, I rest the side of my head against my knees and close my eyes. "I misinterpreted someone's actions. I thought they were...nice, you know, and that they could never be so vindictive, hurtful, obnoxious, heinous, a real son of a…"

"Ok," Mom interrupts, "I understand…sort of. Someone's hurt you. Bad."

I nod, tightly squeezing my eyes, naively hoping that the tears will keep at bay. They don't, however, and a traitorous tear escapes, trickling down my cheek before landing on my jeans.

There's an arm around me then, and I'm pulled against Mom's shoulder. More tears fall as the awful thought of wanting to be in someone else's arms (any guesses who?) slips into my mind.

Eventually the tears relent and I'm spent. Mom continues to pat my hair, whispering words of comfort.

"I'm fine," I eventually choke out, gently disentangling myself from her arms.

Mom regards me with speculation, her expression soft. "Is this about Fang?"

Self-depreciation gives way to boiling rage at the mention of his name. I can only do so much moping, and now, anger has set in and I'm livid at his cruel prank.

"Why does everyone think that if I behave in some way, whether I'm happy or sad, that it has to do with him?" I bitterly retort. "Because he means _nothing_ to me. I _hate_ him."

Mom's expression has taken on an even softer look as she regards me with sad eyes: she knows he's the one who's hurt me – call it Mom-intuition. "Ok, Max," she says. "I'll put some food aside for you, in case you're hungry later."

I nod tightly, and, as soon a she's closed the door behind her, I collapse back onto my bed.

* * *

I walk into Mr. Smith' classroom with my head held high. I spot Fang instantly sitting in the first row, girls flocking around him. He's changed seats so that he won't have to sit beside me. Good.

He doesn't look up when I take my seat, his eyes kept trained on the book in front of him. The scene reminds me of our first day at college, when he'd tried to ignore all the giggling girls, and I'd wanted nothing more than to ignore him.

"Hey, you," a high-pitched voice calls. "It's Max, right?"

My head snaps up, locating the person to whom the voice belonged. She's a couple of seats from me, her red lips stretching into a smile as she realises she's caught my attention. She tucks a strand of curled brown hair behind her ear and asks, "Have you and Nick had a fight?"

"What?" I say stupidly.

"Nick's not sitting with you, and you guys are always together. Are you both still a couple?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No, we're not together."

"Shame," she says, shrugging, "you guys made a cute couple." She pauses. "Well, if he's available, maybe I'll have a chance with him."

She turns round then, and I'm left glaring at the back of her head, until I realise how stupid I'm being because there is no reason for me to feel possessive when we had, in fact, never been together.

I sigh and turn my attention to the front of the classroom. I can feel eyes on me, and, casting a quick glance around, realise those eyes belong to Fang.

* * *

A soon as class is over, I run (quite literally) out of the classroom, not wanting to walk to the music room with Fang. Unfortunately, he'll still be playing with us for a short time as we'd been hired for a wedding in two weeks, and although Sam's cast had now been removed from his hand, he'd missed out on too much practice to play with us for this booking.

"Hey," I greet when I walk into the room. I'm met by enthusiastic waves from all, save Sam, who simply smiles. I've been mildly worried about how things will be between us since the break up: I haven't seen him since then. But hopefully, we'll slip into the roles of just friends easily and quickly, and the awkwardness will soon dissipate.

I go to the piano, my head snapping up instantly when I hear the door smack against the wall, only to reveal Fang with his violin case in hand. He doesn't meet my eye, instead keeping them trained on the ground.

As I sift through my sheets of music, JJ comes up beside me.

"You ok?" she whispers.

"Just peachy," I respond.

She frowns. "Sam told us you guys broke up," she persists.

I nod. "Yeah, we did."

She remains silent for a moment, seemingly hesitant, before she continues, "Does it have something to do with Fang?"

_Ugh._ Does _everyone_ know that I love him? Is it _that _obvious? Because if so, then Fang obviously knew. I bet having that transcendent knowledge just egged him on to continue the ruse of 'liking' me, because why else would he kiss me, huh? If he couldn't get me to fall for him, then it wouldn't be all that good a prank. It would have been just bad slapstick.

I slam the music I'd been sorting through down, causing JJ to jump back in surprise. "It has _nothing_ to do with Fang. Sam and I are just better friends than boyfriend and girlfriend, ok? Fang would _never_ equate into my decision because he means _nothing_ to me, ok?"

She nods tersely, eyes wide with surprise at my outburst. I hadn't been particularly loud, more like whisper-shouting, but it had been enough to grab the attention of the others, including Fang.

He meets my eyes fleetingly, his face impassive, before his eyes dart away from mine quickly.

I can feel my face heating up from embarrassment, realising just how much of a fool I must look. I pick up my bag then, slinging it over my shoulder, shoving my music under my arm, and do what I do best: charging off.

* * *

I'm relieved to discover that I'm the first home. I'm in the mood to verbally snap and jab, shout and scream, to let out every pent up emotion.

I stomp into the kitchen, snatch a glass from the cabinet, and slam it on the counter. I grab a carton of juice from fridge and, after pouring some, put it back into the fridge and slam that. I'm frustrated: at myself for storming off like that (I'd never really been one for theatrics), and at Fang for just…_being_ there.

I rest my hands across the table. When I don't feel the anticipated cool metal of my charm bracelet against my skin, my eyes snap to my wrist. It's not there and panic grips me – it had been a 16th birthday present from my mom, bearing five charms – as it's one of my most treasured possessions. It's the only jewellery I really own, and is worn quite often.

I bolt from out of my seat and begin checking the floor in kitchen, in the living room, in the hall, and then outside. I move to my car then, meticulously raking my eyes across everywhere and anywhere. After over an hour of fruitless searching, I retreat back into the house, forcing myself to remember when I'd last seen it on my wrist. I'd had it during class, I'm sure, because I remember admiring one of the charms: a music note that Ella had brought me for my last birthday. So when had I lost it? On my way to the music centre? _In_ the music centre? In the parking lot?

I have the sudden compulsion to go back and search and search until I find it. But it had been what? Two…_three_ hours since I'd last been at college? And I could have lost it anywhere.

Slumping on the settee, I groan as I rest my head in my hands. Today is just getting better and better.

* * *

_An extract from Chapter 21 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha perches on the edge of her settee, unaware of the pile of ironing to her side that is threatening to collapse onto the floor. Instead, her eyes are riveted on the envelope in her hands. It had arrived just over ten minutes ago, but she hasn't yet decided whether she should open it. She knew who – _where,_ it is from: the College, but isn't sure as to whether she wants to know their verdict (had they offered her a place or not?) because it's irrelevant now. She's decided already, what with her father's mounting medical bills, that she can't possibly afford to go, and, what with having to look after her brother, Jake, more frequently these days, she will not have the time either._

_Deciding it's pointless and that she should just forget about all this college crap, she stuffs the letter inside her jacket pocket and grabs her bag, grudgingly preparing to set off for another monotonous day at work._

"_I'm here," Samantha shouts as she bolts into the pub, just a couple of minutes late._

_Bob is behind the bar and gives her a warm smile and a nod in greeting. He'd been more than understanding of her late arrivals, after having experienced her drunken mother only a couple of weeks ago. Nothing had been said verbally between her and Bob, but there was an almost mutual agreement between them that there would be some leniency in regards to her late arrivals at work._

_She hangs her jacket on a coat hook in the back room, unaware of the letter slipping from out of her pocket. She hastens into the bar, and goes to serve an impatient customer who keeps pointing at his empty pint glass, as if she hasn't already taken the hint that he's awaiting service._

"_Let patience be a virtue," she snaps._

_As she pulls the pint, she fails to see the tall, broad shouldered figure of David walk up beside her, the letter in his hand. As had Samantha, he recognises that it's from the college. He's frowning, as he can't understand why she hasn't opened it yet. She'd confided in him previously how much she'd love to read literature, and how much she'd desperately wanted to be accepted. However, she'd also confided in him how she was worried that perhaps right now would not be the best time: her family came first, and her savings for college were meagre._

_After Samantha has served the less-than-grateful customer, David coughs, startling her. She jumps back in surprise, her eyes instantly averting his when she realises who it is. She's nervous, he can tell, and so is he. They haven't seen each other since she rejected his advances and walked off, leaving him crushed and hurt. Her words of "I don't love you" had settled like some persistent poison in his ears, and even now, the effect they have on him is still potent as they reverberate through his mind in a reoccurring flashback. And no matter how much he tries not to care, or to stop his heart from skipping a beat when his eyes latch onto her slim figure, he fails. He's never been in love before, but he's almost certain that this is what it feels like._

"_This was on the floor," he says, indicating the envelope. "It's yours, right? From the college?"_

_She nods tersely, and takes it from his outstretched hand. "Thanks," Samantha mumbles._

_When she realises he's still there, she grudgingly looks up and raises her eyebrows questioningly._

"_You haven't opened it," he bluntly states. "Don't you want to know whether they accepted you or not? Because, unless you're psychic or something, you're not going to know any other way than by opening it."_

_Samantha shrugs. "It doesn't matter anymore. I'm not going to college."_

_He frowns. "Why? Because of what's going on at home?"_

"_Partly," she replies, "but my income has had to be diverted to other places recently. I've had to dip into my college fund for a couple of things."_

_The despondency in her voice forces his legs to take a step towards her, intending to loop his arms around her and hold her close to him, letting her know that they'd work something out. But her reproachful gaze stops him, and he's reminded once again of what he can't have – _her_, even though he'd never wanted anything or anyone more before._

"_But," David begins, "what if you _did_ have the money?"_

_It's Samantha's turn to frown now as she regards him warily. "Perhaps. Why? What difference would…" She tops suddenly, realising what he's implying. "No," she firmly states, "I'm not taking any money from you." She'd already taken enough from him, she thinks, and she'd take nothing else._

"_You could call it a loan," he insists._

"_No."_

_He sighs, and runs an irritated hand through his hair. They'd had this discussion before: him giving her a loan to go to college with, but like before, she refused to accept any financial aid from him._

"_Samantha, you can't lose this opportunity."_

"_No," she dismisses, crossing her arms in a defiant gesture. "It doesn't really matter anyway, because it's unlikely I'll have been offered a place," she adds._

_Frowning, David swiftly snatches the envelope from out of her hand._

"_Hey!" Samantha says, reaching for the letter. David takes a couple of steps back and turns her back on her, swiping away her hands as she tries to grab it from him. He deflects them easily though, and hurriedly tears open the envelope, his eyes scanning the page before reading the words he knew he'd see in print: _we're pleased to offer you a place…

_Samantha's stopped trying to pry the letter from him now: she's realised her efforts are futile, and waits with abated breath for him to say something…_anything.

_He turns round slowly, just to annoy her like he knows it will, and declares, "They offered you a place."_

_His words weigh heavily in the air, and don't quite filter through to Samantha._

"_What?" she asks._

_David smiles and hands her the letter. "They offered you a place," he repeats._

_She eagerly takes the letter from him, her eyes latching onto the words he'd just said, as if seeing them in black and white would make the declaration any more true._

_Her face breaks into a grin then, forgetting that the idea of going is inconceivable, as she revels in the fact that the college perceived her as good enough to attend._

_Seeing her with eyes bright and a smile alighting on her lips provokes David to make an inward promise to himself: he'll make sure she accepts this college offer, because prestigious colleges like that (only a couple of positions lower than Harvard on the league table) are too good to turn down - she just_ can't_ lose out on this opportunity. He just needs to find a way to provide her with the money she requirs without her rejecting it._

* * *

The next day I enter the college with a potent feeling of apprehension. I feel immensely guilty at having run out of the music room, particularly since this wedding performance is soon, and need all the rehearsals we can squeeze in until then.

So instead of heading to the Library like I usually do, I enter the music room, hoping to catch either Phil, JJ or Dylan to apologies.

Neither JJ or Phil is present, but Dylan is, unpacking his viola and bow. He turns round suddenly, registering another presence in the room, and graces me with a warm smile.

"Hey," I greet. "Are the others around? I wanted to apologies for my dramatic exit the other day."

"Oh," he replies, "don't worry about it. We all kinda guessed that something had happened between you and Fang when he'd walked in. You could practically cut the tension in the room with a knife."

A wave of guilt washes over me: it isn't fair on any of them, Fang and mine's problems, as it's affecting other people as well now. I'm about to apologies again when he anticipates my response, waving it off with his hand and a shake of his head.

"Don't worry about it," he says, "you're our friend, and we really like having you in the group. You just needed to be alone for a bit, and we get that."

I can't suppress the smile that stretches its way onto my lips in response to his kind words. "Thanks," I say, "that means a lot."

He shrugs, the smile still quirking his lips upwards. A lock of blond hair slips in front of his face, and he brushes it back. "Although," he begins, grinning wickedly, "if you wanted to make your absence up to me, you could do me a favour."

I narrow my eyes teasingly and place my hands on my hips, asking, "And what would this favour be?"

His eyes are bright with mirth when he replies, "I need a pianist to accompany me for a recording I have to do. Don't suppose you know of anyone, do you?"

I tap a finger thoughtfully against my chin. "As a matter of fact," I say, "I do."

**This was more of an introductory chapter for the events that are going to take place in the following chapters – hope no one is too disappointed by the length or lack of plot progress. The next one will be longer, and Fang will play a more substantial part.**

**I also hope I didn't make Max too emotional, and that she didn't prove to be too dramatic and out of character – I found her thoughts and feelings rather difficult here, particularly since friends and family refer to me as the Tin Man in regards to my emotional diversity (hee hee).**

**Your thoughts and feelings on this chapter would be really appreciated.**

**Oh, and a bit on my History trip to France – it was great! Fortunately we had really nice weather as well, which was particularly lucky as we visited several battlefield sites – from the Napoleonic battles to WWII (my History course entails the Changing Nature of Warfare from 1792-1945). We visited the Somme, Omaha beach (very beautiful – it was surreal knowing that a bloody battle had taken place there), and Waterloo. It was a particularly sobering trip as we visited several cemeteries, particularly the Last Post Ceremony in Ypres (a beautiful town) at the Menin Gate - a war memorial to the approximate 54, 800 soldiers that were not found during the Ypres salient of WWI.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	23. It's Not That Easy Getting Over Someone

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

I'm smiling as I play the last bar of music on the piano: we'd played in complete harmony with no dissonant notes, and no off beats. And when I say _we_, I'm referring to Dylan and I.

Dropping my hands to my side, I look up, only to find him grinning down at me, his viola in hand. We'd just spent the last hour practicing his coursework piece, and, after several run-throughs, we'd finally perfected it. Dylan was – _is_ great. He plays with such a fluidity and intuition that, although not as graceful as Fang's, is still just as captivating.

"That was great," Dylan says. "Thanks again for doing this, Max."

"My pleasure," I say. "I love the concerto you've picked. It's beautiful."

He gives me a small smile, turns his head to the side, and rubs the back of his neck nervously. I bend down to retrieve my bag, barely discerning his mumbled, "_You're_ beautiful."

I freeze, my hand stilled on top of my bag. _What?_ I frown, waiting for him to say something more, but he doesn't. I slip my music into my bag then, deciding I'd either misheard or imagined Dylan's utterance.

"We play really well together," he says. "We're _perfect_ playing partners – we make a good team."

I nod, standing up, and smile. "Yeah, we do play well together."

He's still smiling down at me, broad and unrestrained, his electric-blue eyes warm. I can't help but smile back. And I can't help the fleeting thought of how…cute he looks.

I instantly cringe away from the thought: I'm done with the male species (yes, I've denounced them as an entirely different entity from females), because all they do is cause more harm than good. I'm best rid of them.

"I've got to go," I say, walking towards the door. "I need to pick up Ella from soccer practice," I explain. He follows, and, like a gentleman, holds the door open for me (so not necessary – I'm more than capable of opening a door - just saying).

"I'll see you on Monday then," he says.

"You will indeed."

"Can we run-through the concerto again? I want to make sure everything's perfect before I record it."

I smile. "Sure." And wave goodbye. "See you, Dylan."

"Bye Max."

* * *

I arrive early to pick Ella up from soccer. There are some waiting parents on the stands, so I go over and situate myself on the first row.

I watch as Ella dribbles the ball, speedily and skillfully moving up and down the pitch. I haven't seen her play for a while, and feel somewhat bad for not doing so. She has a game coming up soon, so I promise myself I'll be one of her roaring supporters for then.

The school's main door whams loudly against the building, pulling my attention away from the game. Iggy's standing in the doorway, his arm outstretched, supporting the door.

"Hey Iggy," I call, walking over to him.

His eyebrows rise up in surprise, his sightless eyes fixing a little above my head. "Max?"

"Yeah," I say, "it's me. How come you're still at school?"

"Extra classes," he explains. "I have a tutor that reads to me, helping me with my school work and stuff." He frowns. "What are you doing here?"

"Picking up Ella from soccer practice."

Although both Iggy and Ella attend different schools (Ella in junior high and Iggy in high school), both academias share the same sports field due to their close proximity of each other.

Iggy tilts his head to the side, listening. "Didn't realise Ella still played soccer. I only saw her play a handful of times – a few years ago now, of course – but I remember her being good."

"Yeah," I say, smiling, turning my gaze back to the game. "She's kicking all their asses." I watch as Ella delivers a tackle, swiftly kicking the ball from out of her opponents reach. "She's not bad at all."

"How are you getting home?" I ask. I know the family don't have access to a car, their dad having left with it, and, what with having a mother who's always over the alcohol level to drive one, had not invested in one. Fang had remarked a couple of times to me how he'd been saving up for driving lessons and a car: he craved the independence, and the ability to drive his siblings around easily.

"Oh, there should be a bus coming along in the next half hour," Iggy replies. "I'm catching that."

I frown. "That's a little while to wait," I comment, pulling my coat around me a little tighter. The temperature had really begun plummeting in the last couple of days: winter is here, officially. "You can catch a lift with me and Ella."

"What?"

"I'll give you a lift back," I reiterate.

He frowns. "You don't have to. It's not that long a wait."

"I know," I say, smirking, "but I'm such a nice person, that I can't stand to see someone freeze in these late November temperatures."

He smiles, and gives a short chortle.

"Ella's game should be finishing in the next five minutes or so. Wanna sit in the stands while we wait?" I ask.

He nods, standing a little closer to me, his arm occasionally brushing against mine as we walk over to the first row of chairs. I don't normally allow such close proximity, and would usually shuffle away slowly from that person. But I know what Iggy's doing: he's making sure he's keeping pace with me, and is going in the right direction. For now, I'm his guide.

"We haven't seen you at the house for over a week," he comments, placing his bag against the side of his chair, resting his cane across his lap.

I hesitate for a moment, eventually replying, "I've had a lot of stuff going on."

We sit in silence for a few long seconds, both our attention's absorbed by the game.

"Have you had a fight?" Iggy suddenly asks.

I turn to look at him, startled. His sightless eyes remain forward in the direction of the game.

"What?" I say.

"Have you and Fang had a fight?"

I frown, my heart sinking at the mention of his name. "What makes you say that?"

Iggy shrugs. "Fang's been rather withdrawn lately. Doesn't talk as much. And then when Angel wanted to know when you'd be round again, he just snapped at her, telling her that you were too busy." Iggy frowns and mumbles, "He's never snapped at her like that before."

Fractured thoughts and feelings flit through me: _why should any of his mood changes have to do with me? _Especiall_y when he's made it clear he wants _nothing_ to do with me._

Iggy continues: "You left in a hurry last week, as well. Maybe it's coincidence, but he's just seemed rather depressed since then." He gives a sudden bitter laugh. "Although, I can think of a few other reasons as to why he'd be depressed."

I nod, forgetting he can't see the physical gesture. "Yeah," I agree, thinking of their absent father and drunken mother.

"It's just," he continues, "all that stuff has never seemed to faze him all that much. He's just ploughed on, done all the day-to-day stuff, put on a brave face for Gazzy and Angel. But even they know there's something wrong now. They know something's bothering him."

His hands are tightly clenched around his cane. I cover one of my hands with his, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

"I've tried speaking to him, asking him what's wrong," Iggy continues. He cuts off, shaking his head, despondent. "He just tells me he's fine, but I know he's not. I _don't know_ what to do." He looks to me then, his sightless eyes looking just above mine. "What do I do?"

I fix my lips in a firm line, locking back all emotions. Fang has always remained strong for his siblings, having erected a seemingly impregnable wall in which all were unable to discern any disconcerting emotions. But now, that wall is crumbling. I just don't understand why _now_ and not before…_way_ before, when his life had initially become a downward spiral of problems.

"I'll talk to, Fang," I promise. There's a lump settling at the back of my throat, getting bigger, gradually, as I wonder what could have caused him to break. I can't help but wonder and worry, because although he'd rejected me, I still cared.

Iggy sighs, slumping back against his seat. "Thanks, Max. It means a lot. Maybe you'll be able to get through to him."

"Don't worry," I say absently, my mind whirring at the thought of having to talk to him. We haven't spoken since last week when I'd bolted out of his house. I hadn't planned on it either, wanting nothing more than to avoid him.

"Max!" Ella calls, pulling me out of my thoughts.

My eyes snap forward, locking with a panting, sweating Ella. She's still in her soccer kit, mud plastered on her knees and elbows.

"Hey," she says, and then frowns, noticing Iggy beside me.

"Iggy?" she asks.

He gives a small smile. "Yeah, it's me, Ella."

She smiles, forgetting he can't see it. Her eyes move to the cane then, and the eyes that aren't really seeing her. She frowns, and her smile drops, somewhat.

"I haven't seen you in ages," she says. "Not since you'd left us middle-schoolers to depart to Jr. high."

"And now you're in Jr. high," Iggy says, "and I've moved on to high school. How's Mr. Woodman doing?"

"The music teacher?" Ella asks.

"Yeah, he runs the orchestra."

"I know," Ella replies, "I play the violin in it."

Iggy's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Really? I didn't realise you played. I do, as well…kinda. Fang's been teaching me how to the last couple of years."

Ella's eyes are wide, her mouth hanging partly open. "But...how can you…" She cuts off suddenly, seemingly nervous as she realises her question may not be well received.

Iggy, however, seems unperturbed. "How can I still play when I'm blind?"

Ella nods, slowly, and then remembering he can't see the gesture, says, "Yeah."

"When you lose a sense," he begins, "all your others tend to get a lot stronger. I've always been told I have a good ear for music, so when I lost my sight, it just got a hell of a lot stronger. You don't need to see to play the violin, but it would make learning a piece of music a lot easier if I could actually _read_ the music." He smiles, almost a secret smile, before continuing, "You appreciate music a lot more when there's nothing visually to distract you. You hear everything a lot clearer. I can pick out little bits – modulation, dynamic changes – a lot easier now. So I suppose, in a way, blindness has its quirks."

"Yeah," Ella says, "I suppose you're right. I better go grab my stuff. Since I'm not running around anymore, I finally realise just how cold it is out here."

"See you in a bit," I shout, as she jogs over to the changing rooms.

I turn to Iggy then. "How long has Fang been teaching you the violin?"

His face twists in thought for a few contemplative seconds, before finally responding with, "About three years. I was never really that much interested when Gran was teaching Fang. I suppose the idea just grew on me, after hearing Fang get better and better, and then playing all these great pieces. It made me want to try something new. Only, he doesn't get much chance to teach me nowadays, what with everything going on."

I stand up, spotting Ella coming towards us, her schoolbag in hand.

Iggy continues: "We used to play duets together, but not now. Time's short for him. He's always rushing around, doing something."

Ella's standing beside us then, tightening the ponytail she's fixed her hair into. She's heard Iggy's last comments and frowns. "If you need a duet partner," she says, "we could always play together. It would be fun, especially since Max just plays that box with keys."

"Yeah, that's be really nice," Iggy replies.

I gape, feigning hurt at Ella's totally unjust remark. "Box with keys? You mean my wonderful piano?"

Iggy laughs, his face seemingly brighter now. There had been an almost haunted look there before: worry congealing, panic spiking, as he'd wracked his brains for what to do about Fang.

"Yeah," Ella agrees, referring to my 'box with keys'. "It's nothing compared to the violin. Right Iggy?"

I narrow my eyes at her. "If you want a lift, Iggy," I say, "I suggest you side with the piano."

He laughs again, chortling out, "Sorry, but I can't betray my own instrument."

I throw my arms up in despair. "I'm outnumbered!"

We all burst into laughter then, and clamber into my car.

"Max," Ella begins, "I need you to take me to the mall before we go home."

I groan. I hate the mall: it's a place of torture, mass pain…

"So will you, Max?" she persists. "I need to pick up your birthday present."

I frown. "My birthday's not until next Friday."

"I know," she says, "but I'm not gonna have a chance to go any other time. Please. It is for you, after all. I've had to go to a lot of trouble finding you this, because originally, I'd planned on buying you another charm for your bracelet. But since you've lost that, I've had to get a little creative."

I sigh. "Yeah, sure. Anything for me."

She scoffs. "Thought that would persuade."

"I'll drop you off first, Iggy," I tell him, "save you going through the hell that is the mall."

"Thanks, Max," Iggy says. "Mall's are not my thing. Too noisy."

I nod, forgetting, once again, that he wouldn't have registered this gesture. We pull up alongside Fang's drive then. Iggy opens the back door, getting out, and turns to me. "Have a good birthday, Max. And thanks for the lift." He turns to Ella and says, "It was really nice talking to you again, Ella."

"I'll call you," she promises, "so that we can set up a time when we can play together."

"Great. I'll see you then."

* * *

I'm sitting in my car, prolonging the inevitable of getting _out_ of my car and walking up the steps to the English department. It's Monday, and it's back to college. It's also back to being assaulted by nerves and dread whenever I see Fang. He's on my mind, a lot, and I hate it. I just can't dispel his harsh, cutting words, "_I led you on I led you on I led you on…"_ They reverberate in my mind like they're on some sick re-play, _"I led you on I led you on…"_

I shake my head fiercely, futilely trying to dislodge the words. And in a way, the effect is achieved – I certainly forget his words – as I cradle the side of my head with my hands, having smacking my head against my car door. _Yeah, ouch._

I stumble out of the car, slinging my bag across my shoulder and slowly walk to English. I'm just about to open the door when I spy Fang talking to Mr. Smith. I can't discern anyone else in there, so I wait, not wanting to interrupt their seemingly tense conversation. Instead, I press my ear against the door and listen.

"This work is much better, Nick," Mr. Smith says. "But it's still a little short. You know I enjoy reading your prose, so give me something _more_ to read." He pauses. "It's another highly emotionally charged piece: I can practically _feel _your protagonist's emotional turmoil over his decision."

Another pause, and then, "Thanks, Sir."

"Just keep it up. Don't slip back into your old ways. I've re-entered you for the exam, so hopefully, if you continue as you're doing now, we should see that D turn into something a little more acceptable."

"Will do, Sir. I won't let that happen again."

"Good." A pause. "The class should be arriving soon. Is there anything else you wanted to ask?"

"No, that was all. Thanks."

Outside, I hesitate a few moments longer, waiting to glimpse another of my classmates before entering. I couldn't bear it if Fang, Mr. Smith and I were the only three in the room: it would just be too awkward.

Eventually, a few students arrive and I enter with them.

"So," Mr. Smith begins, when everyone is seated, "where are we in Ambiguity?"

When no one supplies an answer, he turns to me, eyebrows raised questioningly. "Max? I'm sure you know where we are."

I nod. "David wants to endorse Samantha's college tuition. He just doesn't know how to do so yet without her rejecting the money."

He smiles and nods, agreeing. "But what about before that? Where are David and Samantha's relationship at?"

I frown. "She rejected him, telling him she 'doesn't love' him. Samantha hurt him badly, and yet he can't help but continue to love her. He knows nothing can ever become of them, because he believes she never cared for him."

"Right," Mr. Smith agrees. All eyes are on me, including Fang's. He seems torn, almost; his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes radiating sadness.

"But, as we know from Samantha's thoughts," Mr. Smith continues, "she _does_ feel the same way. She loves him, but right now, a relationship would not be the best thing."

"It's all very sad, " a girl remarks, absently slipping through her copy of Ambiguity. "They both want to be together, but they can't."

I scoff. "They could be," I object, "they could _make_ it work. But Samantha's just not willing to try."

Fang turns round sharply from his position at the front, his eyes narrowed, and retorts, "And bring David into her mess? Why should he have to contend with her family problems? It just wouldn't be fair."

"And it's not fair on Samantha, either," I say. "Why should she have to suffer alone? David was more than willing to help, but she just rejected him. And in the cruelest way."

"Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind."

"What's kind in it? They're _both_ unhappy."

"David will get over it," Fang coldly states.

I give a wistful smile. "It's not that easy getting over someone you love."

His eyes remain solely on mine, scrutinising me. But I don't want him to see how much he's hurt - _hurting_ me, so I school my expression, and fix in place an impassive mask.

"Well," Mr. Smith declares, snapping both Fang and mine's attention back to the front. Everyone's staring at us: some looking incredulous, others confused, while the empathetic few wear a look of understanding. "Good points," he congratulates, "you're understanding of the characters' actions and perceptions is very impressive. You're really learning how to put yourselves in the characters' positions."

"I do understand why Samantha rejected him as well," a girl remarks. "She has to put her family first, and they need her more than David needs her right now. And, as Samantha commented before, she doesn't have the time to have a stable relationship, and surely David wouldn't want that? She's trying to do what's best for them both."

Mr. Smith smiles. "Good. We're seeing alternative views." He moves from off his seat then, grabs his copy of Ambiguity and positions himself in front of his desk. "Have we seen any other ambiguous elements?"

"We still don't know about David's family," a students answers. "We know he had a prestigious job, earned lots and lots of money, and then winds up a chef in a grotty pub. _Something_ had to have happened for him to just suddenly leave that wealthy lifestyle."

"Indeed," Mr. Smith agrees, "this story has yet to reach its conclusion."

* * *

I'm walking down the hall when Fang suddenly comes up beside me. "Why are you heading to the music block?" he asks. "We don't have a rehearsal until tomorrow."

"I know," I say, my eyes remaining forward. "I'm going to meet Dylan."

"Dylan? Why?"

"Does it really matter?" I snap, stepping up my pace.

"Just asking," he says, jogging a few steps to catch up to me. "I just thought you'd wait a little while before moving on from Sam and going off with one of his friends."

I come to a halt, gape, and round on him, livid. "How _dare_ you suggest I could ever be that heartless?" I shout. "I'm not like _you _who lead people on for their own enjoyment. Was it some sick joke to you, pretending to 'like' me? Or was it a prank that just got out of hand?"

He remains impassive after my rant, his eyes, however, conveying his surprise and sadness. I smile snidely. Anger practically rolls off me in waves. My curled fists swing at my sides, as I chide, "Can't answer? You've never had problems before with your words around me. What's changed? Feel guilty?"

He looks away, and I know my words are having their desired effect. "Well," I continue, "don't worry about me, ok? Because I've never 'liked' you like that. And you're right, kissing you was a mistake."

I turn my back on him then, refusing to look back, even once. And I'm still obstinate when I hear his quite utterance: "I'm sorry."

I thought shouting at him like that, getting it all out, would make me feel better. But it hasn't. It's just made me feel rejected, rotten, and empty.

* * *

"Hey Max," Dylan chirps, swinging his legs off the table he'd just been sitting on. He notices my despondency immediately and frowns.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

I wave it of with a flick of my hand. "Nothing."

"Something's wrong," he continues, determined. "Tell me."

"It's nothing."

The frown becomes more prominent on his forehead. "I know you better than that, Max. _Something_ is wrong. Just tell me, because maybe I can help."

I give a bitter laugh and shake my head, incredulous. "I doubt that."

His face falls for a moment, saddened by my harsh statement. I feel guilty instantly and force a smile.

"I'm sorry," I say, trying to infuse some warmth into my voice. "I know you're only trying to be nice, and I appreciate it. But it's just something I've got to deal with on my own, y'know."

Dylan takes a step closer towards me, and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to do everything alone," he says. "I care about you a lot, Max."

I never see it coming, I swear, my eyes having been riveted to the floor when his lips suddenly meet mine. It's a quick, fleeting kiss. But ultimately, it's a suggestion of what _could_ be.

Dylan's face is alight and bright when he pulls away, smiling. But the smile turns to a frown when he notes the look on my face and the way my eyes refuse to meet his for more than a second. _What did he think he was doing?_

"Am I that bad of a kisser?" he asks, a little apprehensively.

"No," I say, "it's just…right now's not a good time for me to enter into a relationship with anyone, y'know. I've not long broken up with Sam, and then…it's just not a good idea."

He nods, his lips tightly pursed. "Bad timing then," he mutters.

"Yeah," I agree. "Bad timing." _Biggest. Understatement. Ever._

"Well," he begins, forcing a smile, "maybe when you're ready…"

He leaves the question open, giving me the choice. And after a couple of seconds, when my torrent of emotions and thoughts have slowed to a halt, I nod. "Yeah," I say, "maybe."

But right now, honestly, I can't see myself with anyone.

* * *

The week's rehearsals plough on with no words passing between Fang and I. But there's still a tense ambience lingering between us, and it's growing.

Dylan, thankfully, hasn't decided on spontaneously kissing me, as before. Although he does keep shooting me secret smiles, meeting me outside class, walking me to my car. I don't discourage his efforts: I enjoy his company, and he makes me laugh.

* * *

Friday comes all too soon: the date of my _19th _birthday. Oh man, I feel old.

"Max!" Ella shouts. Her voice sounds far away as I stir from my drowsy state, pulling my blankets over me head. There's a scuffle of running footsteps, and then someone's jumping on my bed, roughly shaking me. "Wake up!"

I groan, and push my _darling_ sister away.

"Ella, it's way too early," I complain. "Go away."

"But it's your birthday."

"All the more reason to allow me a lie in then."

"God, you're getting grumpy in your old age."

I slip my pillow form out under my head and throw it at her. She dodges it easily, laughing. "You youths have no respect for your elders anymore," I declare.

She throws the pillow right back, and it collides smack-bang with my face. _Charming._

"Come on," she orders. "There are cards and presents downstairs, and Mom's made you a special breakfast."

I perk up at the mention of breakfast and sit bolt upright, eyebrows raised. "Chocolate chip pancakes?" I enquire.

Ella sighs and rolls her eyes. "Well, of course."

I grin. "In that case, I'm up."

She grabs my hand then, yanking me up off the bed, and practically drags me down the stairs.

Mom's sitting at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. She greets me with a warm smile, pulling me into a tight hug once I reach her. "Happy birthday, sweetheart. You're growing up way too quickly."

I smile back, embarrassed.

"Not quick enough," Ella remarks. "I need her to leave home so that I can get her room. Mine's way too small now."

I frown. "Well, if you stopped buying so much junk, maybe there'd be more room."

She narrows her eyes at me and I glare back, flipping her the bird once Mom leaves to grab the pancakes from the kitchen.

"Anyway,' Ella says, pushing a couple of cards and presents over towards me, "these are for you."

* * *

The morning's a blur of opening cards and presents, devouring pancakes and sipping juice. And then, just before I'm to set off for college, the postman arrives with a small package for me.

I tear it open quickly, not wanting to be late, and gape, shocked and confused when I see what's inside. It's my charm bracelet, the one I'd misplaced just over two weeks ago. I scourge for a note, but find none, and scrutinise the handwriting, but fail to recognise it. All that is there is my charm bracelet. Only, instead of its customary five charms, there are six. I finger it carefully, tracing the engraved heart that lies in the centre of the silver circled charm.

_How could it have gotten here? Who'd added that charm?_

I'd asked several people in my classes as to whether they'd seen my bracelet the day after I'd lost it, but all had declared that they hadn't. I'd asked JJ, Phil, Sam and Dylan as well, but they had all said, with regret, that they hadn't spotted it. I'd even went to the office, naively hoping someone had handed it in. But no. Nada. _No one_ had seen it. But obviously, _someone_ had found it and returned it. But who?

* * *

"Happy birthday!" Phil shouts, as I enter the music room, sprinkling a handful of confetti over my head.

I laugh, tousling my hair to get rid of the sparkles and miniature 'happy birthday's'. "Thanks. But was that really necessary?" I ask, grinning.

"Oh, yeah," he replies, "Just like…" He pauses, pointing towards the back of the room where a cake and presents sit. "…those are."

My grin stretches as I give him a one armed hug. "Thanks. Where are…"

"Surprise!" I jump back, startled, as JJ, Dylan and Sam jump out from behind the table.

"God," I say, my hand over my heart, "way to scare the birthday girl."

"As I said," Phil remarks, "it has to be done."

I mock glare at him and shake my head, amazed and touched by their actions.

"Happy birthday, Max," JJ says, pulling me into a hug. I pat her on the back, disentangle myself from her arms, only to have another pair of arms encircle me, this time Dylan's.

"So," Phil says, after I've finished hugging both Dylan and Sam, "we have birthday cake, cookies…"

"Cookies!" I interject, rushing forward. "They're my all time favourite."

JJ giggles, handing me the plate. "That's what Fang said. I think he made them himself, because he remarked how you perceived shop-brought cookies as totally inferior to homemade one's."

I nod my head, agreeing, and mumble as I chomp on a cookie, "It's true. Nothing beats homemade cookies." I swallow. "Where is he?"

Sam shrugs, indifferent. "Don't know. He said he'd be back soon though."

* * *

"Hey Mom," I call once I enter the house, a bundle of cards, presents, and left over cake in my arms.

"Mom?" I shout, once again, when I don't hear a reply.

I walk through the house, scouting rooms, until I spot the open backdoor.

"Valencia, will you just take it," I deep, gravelly voice says. I freeze, instantly recognising the voice.

I gain mobility of my legs then, rushing outside. And when my eyes lock with Jeb's, I glare, fixing him with the dirtiest look I can muster. Mom looks…annoyed, frustrated, her eyes continually narrowing at Jeb. She wants him gone, too.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I demand, my voice filled with venom.

"Happy birthday, Max," he says.

I give a sardonic smirk. "It was, until you reared your ugly face. But you didn't actually answer my question: _what are you doing here?_"

"I want to give you your birthday present," he answers, unperturbed.

I scoff, roll my eyes, and cross my arms. "I don't want anything from you."

He begins to frown. "I'm your father…"

"In blood, yes, but nothing more."

His eyes narrow slightly, and he takes a step closer towards me. I don't move, intent on standing my ground. "I am your father, Max. And I want to help you."

I gape in disbelief, shaking my head. "Being there while I was growing up would have been a 'help'."

He runs a hand agitatedly through his remaining strands of grey hair. "But I wasn't, and I'm trying to make amends," he says.

"I don't want you to make amends. I want you to _go away_."

"Jeb," Mom interjects, "I really think you should leave. She made it clear last time that she wants nothing to do with you. You're causing more harm than good."

"I want to help her, Valencia. She has a bright future, I'm sure, and I want to assist her in anyway possible."

I bark out a bitter laugh. "Leaving would make my future look a lot brighter," I remark.

Jeb glares, his patience, like an elastic band, having seemingly snapped. "I want to pay for you college tuition. I want to help you out financially."

I frown, confused. "Why? You've paid your child support over the years. So why would I want anything more from you?"

He sighs. "I only want to help, Max. If you won't let me be a part of your life, then I at least want to do something for you financially."

"Leaving me the hell alone would be something, and that wouldn't even cost you a dime," I remark, snarky.

"Alright, Max," he soothes. He holds out a blue envelope to me, which I presume is a birthday card, most likely filled with some sentimental-crappy speech that embellishes how sorry he is.

I don't take it, and the frown on his forehead becomes even more prominent. I want to tell him that frowning like that will do nothing for his mounting wrinkles, but refrain from doing so.

I shake my head in response to the card: _no. Not now, not ever._

"I don't want anything from you," I say, "so go, please."

Jeb turns to my mom then, his eyes pleading, desperate.

"She's an adult, Jeb," Mom says, "and she's made up her mind. I'm not going to try and change her decision."

I erase all emotions form my face then, fix in place the impassive mask, and wait to hear his retreating footsteps. He does so slowly, placing the card on the floor, leaving it there for me to do with it as I please.

"I hope you change your mind, Max," he says. "I love you, don't ever forget that."

* * *

It's Saturday, the day of our wedding gig, and we are dressed to impress. Both Phil and Dylan look positively pristine in their smart, black suits. And once again, I've been conned into a simple black dress and flats. JJ, likewise, wears a similar ensemble to me, only just not as grudgingly.

"Will you stop fidgeting?" JJ scolds, as I try, once again, to pull my dress down lower.

"It's too short," I complain.

"_Too short?_ It comes _just_ above your knee."

I shrug, looking somewhat sheepish. What can I say? I just don't like dresses.

I notice Fang staring at me, his eyes glistening with that same indiscernible emotion I've caught him with before. _How could I have ever thought that was love?_

But when he realises he's caught my attention and I've spotted his stare, he looks away and bites his lip. I have a hard time prying my eyes from his form then, because he looks good – _real_ good, in a black, dress jacket that's been left open. A grey shirt is underneath that, with no tie, the first two buttons left open.

"Is there any birthday cake left over from yesterday?" Phil asks, referring to the cake he had made for me.

I give a short burst of laughter. "Of course not. It was way too yummy. As soon as I got home, I devoured it with my Mom and sister. They both say compliments to the chef, by the way."

He smiles. "Good. So you had a good day then?"

I force a smile then, my mind veering back to Jeb and his unexpected arrival. "Yeah," I say, "it was good."

Fang's head snaps towards me, his eyebrows raised. Did he detect the forced optimism in my tone? He's always had a way of reading me, knowing when I'm fibbing, but I thought I'd concealed that little untruth pretty well.

"Are we all ready to play?" JJ asks, propping her violin on her chin. She watches as the first few guests begin to arrive for the service, all dressed in their best: suits and dresses, a few elder females wearing bright, big hats, also. The hall is big, spacious, and by far the biggest venue we've ever played in. Streamers litter the hall in a mad rush of party fever. Flowers are dotted everywhere: in great vases propped up beside tables and in corners, and then a single, red rose slipped into a slim vase on every circular dining table.

We're tucked away in a corner, the piano and I positioned to the side of the four string players: Fang, JJ, Dylan and Phil.

"I'm ready to play," Phil says, enthusiastic as ever. "Let's rock."

* * *

I sit at the piano, watching the couples that litter the dance floor sway with the music. The married couple have also hired a professional band for their big day, leaving us to just sit back and enjoy while they provide the entertainment.

Phil, however, suddenly becomes restless and wants to dance. JJ is adamant that she can't dance though, and Phil declares he can't dance with either Dylan or Fang because it would just look wrong. So that leaves me. I give an exaggerated sigh, and say, "If I must. But be warned, I will most definitely stand on your toes." Inwardly I'm partially glad, because I hope concentrating on my co-ordination will push back the thoughts of Jeb and the blue envelope that's still sitting on my dressing table.

He grins, excited, and pulls me over to the dance floor. The song's upbeat, so we sway and move in time quickly with the music, laughing all the while as Phil begins deploying some of his 'funky' moves.

The next song's mood changes drastically: it's slow, and involves me linking my arms around Phil. This doesn't really bother me, as he soon begins making gagging faces as he watches the dancing couples all making goo-goo eyes at each other.

There's a tap on my shoulder suddenly, and Dylan asks if he can cut in. I almost don't want Phil to go, but how can I stop him when he declares I'd stepped on his feet too many times and needed to rest them (jerk)? He pulls me closer than Phil had, so much so that I can easily discern the light flecks of blue in his eyes. He smiles and tells me, "You look beautiful."

"Thanks," I mumble, embarrassed.

_Please don't kiss me please don't kiss me..._

"I think we played really well," Dylan remarks. "I don't know how your fingers can fly so quickly across those piano keys. It's amazing."

I smile. "Practice. It's no different than you're fingers shifting up and down the viola."

He shrugs. "I suppose, but you make it look so graceful and effortless…"

"Mind if I cut in…" a deep voice enquires. Fang stands just behind Dylan, his arms crossed tightly. His jaw is also clenched, and there's an imperceptible tightening of skin around his eyes.

"I've only just begun dancing with, Max," Dylan says.

"This is your second song," Fang states, his voice a dull monotone, "and I need to talk to her about some English work."

"Can't it wait?"

"No."

Dylan sighs and grudgingly relinquishes his hold on me. I frown and complain, "Don't I get a say in this?" But Dylan's already walked off, situating himself back at our table.

Fang's arms are held out expectantly, waiting for me to link my arms around his neck. I don't, however, and remain stubborn, provoking an aggravated sigh to hiss from out of his mouth. _Well, it's tough because there is no way that I'm…_

Forcefully, and yet still gentle, Fang positions my arms around his neck, while his loop around my waist. I remain immobile and just glare at him, hoping he'll take the hint that I'm hating this.

"What are you doing, Fang?" I hiss.

"Dancing?"

I glare.

"Or trying to," he continues, "but you're not exactly moving."

I frown. It's almost like our usual bicker and banter routine, only, I know that things can never revert back to how they were before. Too much has happened.

He pulls me closer, his arms tightening their hold on me. My breath hitches and my heart skips a beat. I hadn't anticipated the move: to feel his body pressed firmly against mine, to find our noses mere inches apart.

"What do you want?" I ask, my voice small. Inwardly, I hate how weak and pathetic I sound, because it just gives the impression that he still has a hold on me.

"To talk," he replies.

I frown. "I said all I wanted to the last time we spoke. There's nothing left to say."

"There's something wrong with you," he says.

I scoff. "There's something wrong with _you_."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "There's something bothering you, I mean." I don't bother disagreeing, because he's right, of course. Throughout the evening my mind has sporadically flitted back to Jeb and that unopened, blue birthday card. A part of me wants to open it and see what he's written inside, while another part of me wants to rip it up and throw it away, proving to myself that I couldn't give a damn about Jeb and his lousy feelings. I'd noticed Fang's frequent glances at me throughout the evening, his eyes asking the question: _what's wrong?_ But I wasn't willing to divulge any of that information, not now, and definitely not to him.

"There's something bothering _you_," I retort. "Iggy's worried about you."

Surprise flashes in his eyes for a moment before being consumed by the impervious mask. "He mentioned he'd spoken to you," Fang says tightly. "What did he say?"

"That he knows something's upsetting you."

"Well, our father's left us and our mother is a drunk. Iggy's being bullied, and the school can't even kick the bastards out. Want to take your pick as to which one I'm most annoyed at?"

My frown softens. "Well, whatever it is, you need to talk to him. He's really worried, Fang. He says even Gazzy and Angel have picked up on there being something wrong."

Concern begins to collect in his obsidian eyes as his hold on me tightens.

"Don't shut them out, Fang," I say.

He nods tightly.

"If you can't talk to me," I continue, "then you need to talk to someone else."

"That's not necessary," he denounces, "I can handle this on my own."

"You're not superman," I remind him softly, "You're college work has even been affected because of what's been going on. If you'd have just explained to Mr. Smith…"

"And have him asking questions?" Fang interjects. "I don't think so." He takes a deep breath. "Look, I have everything back on track. My college work's improving, and I've finally got enough money to afford driving lessons and a car. Soon I won't be a part of the quintet, so I'll have more time." He scrutinises my expression carefully, his eyes bearing into mine. "I'll have less distractions."

His eyes flit to the side then, where my arms are draped around his neck. He notices the charm bracelet that has slipped lower down my arm. His lips quirk into a small smile, and he remarks, "You got your bracelet back alright then."

**I hope no one is too disappointed by there being no Ambiguity extracts in this chapter, and that the whole dancing thing wasn't too cheesy.**

**Updates from now on will most likely be much slower as I have exams coming up soon, so I can't be sure when I'll next be able to update. I hope you can bear with me, because this story will reach its conclusion, just not for a while, perhaps.**

**As always, your thoughts and opinions would be really appreciated – negative or positive.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	24. Apologies and Forgiveness

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

It just sits there, that _stupid _blue envelope that Jeb had left me for my birthday. I should rip it, tear it into a dozen pieces, and spit on it. And yet, a week later, I've still been unable to execute those actions. Part of me wants to open it and find that it's some sappy apology that embellishes how much he's missed me and won't leave, again, and that he's here to stay. But what if his interest in me fades, and like before, he slips away, focusing purely on his _new_ family?

I was five-going-on-six when he left. My memories of our time together are brief and hazy. But, from what I can remember, he'd been a good father. He'd taught me to ride a bike, fixed up my scraped knees when I'd fallen off, read me bedtime stories…

"Max?" My mom's voice cuts through my thoughts, bringing my to my feet, marching me to the foot of the stairs.

"Yeah?"

"Dinner's ready," she says.

I descend the stairs quickly, forcing a smile onto my lips when I see the frown on her face.

"You ok, honey?" she asks.

"I'm good," I reply. "Just hungry." I pat my stomach, just to emphasise my point. And satisfied, Mom nods, smiles, and leads the way to the dining table. I lose the smile instantly, only to put on another display of faux cheerfulness when I see Ella and Nudge already seated in the kitchen.

"Hey Max," Nudge chirps, twirling the pasta around her fork. "Ella's just been telling me about all these concerts you and your quintet have been doing. It just sounds so cool! I wish I could play an instrument and play in a group like that. She says you're going to be playing at a couple of schools soon, and that ours will be one of them. I can't wait! It's going to be so great to see you and Fang…"

Ella nudges her, looking panicked at her reference to _his _name, and furiously shakes her head. Nudge's eyes are sympathetic when she mutters, "Sorry, I completely forgot…"

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," I interrupt. "I wish you'd all stop tiptoeing around me. You treat his name as if it has some taboo latched onto it. I don't care about him; feel free to say whatever you like about him. _I don't care."_

I stab my fork into a meatball then, and forcefully shove it into my mouth, refusing to see the surprise on their faces.

My thoughts slip back to the wedding, where I'd danced with Fang. After my futile attempt to discern what had been troubling him of late, and his brief comment on my bracelet, the band had stopped playing and our services had once again been required. That had been a week ago now and we haven't spoken since.

"I'm not really that hungry," I say, pushing my plate forward.

I don't wait for a response, and neither do I look for one on their faces. I just stand up, swiftly tuck my chair under the table, and hasten up to my room. And then, when my door's closed behind me, I collapse onto my bed and pick up Ambiguity and read.

_An extract from Chapter 22 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha leans slumped forward against the bar, incognizant of the loud chitter chatter from customers, as her attention is focused solely on David. He's talking on his mobile, just round the corner, his mood buoyant and his face beaming. She's never seen him like this, and she can only pin his sudden mood change, from his recent despondency, on a girl. This belief, however, also stems from the words she's been able to discern from his conversation. She's discovered that his conversant is named Sarah and that he's 'missed her so much' and 'can't wait to see her'._

_Samantha's now moved from off the bar and has pressed herself against the wall, as near to David as she can be to discern his conversation without him realising he has an eavesdropper. He's still on the phone, and his smile is still broad. He nods enthusiastically, muttering, "I care about you a lot, Sarah. Don't forget that." _

_A wave of jealousy washes over Samantha. He's moved on. It's what she wanted him to do, yes, but she can't suppress the resentment she feels towards this Sarah._

"_I work at The Crown. It's just off Seven Street," David says. He pauses, laughs, and then says, "Can't wait. I'll see you tomorrow."_

_He ends the call, sighs contentedly, and turns round, only to find Samantha staring at him. He notices the forlorn look on her face instantly and he frowns. _

"_What's wrong?" he asks._

"_Nothing," Samantha replies, suddenly snapping to attention._

_He's not convinced, however, and raises a questioning eyebrow. "You sure?"_

"_Yes!" she snaps, and nervously rubs the back of her neck. "Who were you talking to? Is she your girlfriend?"_

_David's still frowning and takes a moment to scrutinise her expression: she's tense and her jaw is tightly clenched. "No," he says slowly, "Sarah is not my girlfriend."_

_Samantha lets out a short breath, feeling incredibly stupid. "Oh."_

_He gives a small smile. "Yeah, _oh." He pauses in thought, and then asks, _"Why would you care? You made it clear you don't feel the same way towards me as I do you."_

"_I don't," she says quickly, "I was just…curious."_

_He gives a fleeting smile. "Curiosity killed the cat."_

I slam down the book and run a hand agitatedly through my hair. My eyes stray to the blue envelope once again. I stand up, knowing what I need to do, and pick it up. I've never considered the idiom, 'curiosity killed the cat', as really applying much to me. If I were to mirror any particular species in the animal kingdom it would certainly not be a cat, but perhaps, a bold, free-spirited, domineering bird.

I tear the envelope open, hesitating for a moment before slipping out the card. It says _To my Daughter on her birthday…_ in looping, pink writing. Taking a deep breath, I flip it open and read.

* * *

Class drags on, long and laborious, as my eyes flit frequently to the clock on the wall. I tap my pen impatiently against my book, gaining glares from the students around me as Mr. Smith comes to the end of his long lecture. And then, with a flamboyant gesture to the door he declares, "Class dismissed."

Nerves twist inside my stomach, and I'm once again contemplating as to whether I'm doing the right thing. I pack my books away slowly, no longer impatient to leave class.

I finger my phone, flipping its top up and down, wondering whether I should just cancel, fabricating the excuse that something's come up and could we please reschedule?

I'm so consumed in my thoughts that I fail to hear the footsteps behind me, and I fail to notice the tall, broad shouldered figure beside me.

"What's wrong?" Fang asks.

I jump back, surprised, and my heart sinks in that instance. _Why does he always turn up at the most inconvenient of situations?_

He raises a questioning eyebrow, still awaiting a response.

"Nothing," I snap. "Nothing's wrong."

He crosses his arms, as stubborn as ever. "You were fidgety all through class, and you look flustered and nervous."

"I'm _fine,_" I say, and glare.

His eyes train to my hands, where I keep wringing them together. Damn, I hadn't realised I'd been doing that: it's always been a nervous habit of mine. I drop my hands instantly, positioning them behind my back.

He raises a skeptical eyebrow and takes a step towards me. I frown, take a step back, and regain the previous space between us. I don't like the concern sketched into his features; it just gives me the illusion he cares, when in retrospect, I know he can't.

"Just go away," I say tiredly.

"Why?" Fang asks. "Waiting for someone?"

"Yeah. So?"

His jaw clenches. "Dylan?"

"No," I respond, frowning.

He nods, relaxes, and then jerks his head towards the parking lot from our position outside the college's entrance. "Your car's not in the parking lot. Got problems with the engine or something?"

"No, my car is perfectly fine, thank you very much. I just didn't drive it this morning."

His lip twitches upwards. "You succumbed to public transport?"

I fix him with a dark look, hoping it translates as: _piss off._ But the smirk is still there, and he looks as if he's going nowhere.

"Yes, I took the bus. Big whoop." I pause. I don't think before I speak, the words slipping off my tongue before I can fully contemplate their consequences, as I mutter, "Jeb…my _dad _is picking me up."

Fang's eyebrows rise up in surprise. Well, that had certainly taken him off guard. "Your Dad?"

"Yeah," I say, my words coming out thick and fast. "Big surprise, huh? Couldn't believe it when he turned up two weeks ago, all apologetic and wanting to be a part of my life again and stuff. Thought he didn't care, forgot all about me, y'know. But apparently not. I don't know, maybe he did, and now, he's just suddenly decided to look up his only daughter." I should stop talking and walk away, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground and my mouth moves on its own accord, blurting out every thought and feeling that had festered in me since Jeb's arrival.

"I'm probably doing the wrong thing, seeing him," I continue. "He'll probably let me down and just leave. He'll hurt me." I give a bitter laugh. "I don't exactly trust my judgement right now; don't read people very well, y'know."

As soon as my little rant is finished and silence drops on us, I berate myself for my sudden lucidity, and my eyes dart away from his instantly, the ground suddenly holding a greater appeal.

Those jumble of thoughts had plagued my mind for weeks now, but, until now, I'd just never voiced them, preferring to keep them stored away. I don't know why I'd unloaded them all on Fang; I wish I hadn't, because we're not 'together' and we're not friends.

I cast a furtive glance at him, only to find his eyes soft and sympathetic. He holds out his arm and takes a step towards me. The arm drops to his side, however, when I take a step back in response. His lip twitches downwards and his brow furrows.

"Your Dad left when you were five, right?" he asks.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"And you haven't heard from since then?"

I shake my head.

"Did he say why?"

A nod.

"And do you forgive him?"

This time I shrug, and bury me hands deep inside my coat's pockets.

"You know," Fang begins, moving imperceptibly closer, "people can make mistakes. Perhaps he had a good reason for leaving."

I snort (a very un-lady-like gesture, I know) and fix him with a hard look. "Well, it wasn't good enough."

Fang says, "He made a mistake then. But you're willing to forgive him..."

"Am I?" I ask hotly. "'Cause I'm not sure I…"

"Then why have you agreed to meet with him?" Fang interjects. "Life's too short to hold grudges."

I brew in silence for a moment, my eyes never leaving his.

"Do you forgive your Dad for leaving?" I ask.

He hesitates, but eventually replies, "Yes."

I frown. "But he let you down, and he's left _you_ to pick up the pieces."

"Yeah, he did," Fang says. "But I'm tired of hating him, and I've accepted him for who he is: selfish and weak, and didn't try enough...didn't _care _enough to help his wife." He pauses. "We can't go back in time and fix our mistakes, even though, sometimes, we'd do anything to."

I don't find time to convey a response, or to contemplate whether his last utterance holds a double meaning, as a loud, blaring horn prevents me. I cast a swift glance across the car park, my eyes instantly locking on the well-built stature of Jeb.

"That's him," I say. "I better go." I find myself eager to meet Jeb then, as I want - _need _to get away from Fang. Because it's times like these, when he puts on that facade of genuine care, that the mass of hatred I feel towards him begins to ebb away, and that, I cannot have. I _need_ to hate him, because the alternative...

I turn to Fang, surprised to find him giving me an encouraging smile. "Good luck, Max."

I don't issue a reply, but instead, cross the car park quickly, not wanting to catch myself between a speeding car (seriously, some of these students are maniac drivers) and open Jeb's car door, slipping inside slowly.

"Hey," he says, smiling broad. "I'm so glad you called, Max."

I simply nod, forcing a small smile onto my lips. "Where are we going?" I ask.

He seems impervious to my brashness, or is simply so joyous as to our meeting, that he answers in the same chipper tone, "A small coffee shop not far from here." He pauses. "Was that a friend you were talking to? Or was he a boyfriend?"

The first response that flits through my mind is 'none of your business', but then I remember that I've already inwardly promised myself to not make this meeting tense and awkward. I didn't have to agree to meet him, as he'd suggested in the birthday card he'd given me, but I have. He wants to know about me and my life, and I suppose, in a way, I'm curious to know details about him, too. I can never trust him…_completely_, of course, as he'd lost that a long time ago. And I'm not anticipating in him 'sticking around', either: I have_ no_ expectations for us. I'm just playing it by ear.

"That guy is not really my friend," I reply, referring to Fang, "he's just someone in my class."

"Hmmm. Thought I recognised him," Jeb says. "Thought he was one of your play friends when you were little. Of course, he'd be a lot bigger now, but there was just something about him…"

He remembered. The flare of hope and happiness that sparks from that statement surprises me. And I can't suppress the smile quirking my lips upwards because he remembered; he remembered something about me, even if it was, unfortunately, Fang.

"It was Fang," I say. "Aka Nick Ride, my archenemy."

One hand leaves the steering wheel as he snaps his fingers, remembering. "Ah, yes," he says, "you and him used to get into all kinds of squabbles. Your mom used to get so frustrated having to be called to the school because of it." He pauses. "He's turned into quite a strapping lad."

I don't offer my own opinion, choosing to stare outside instead, watching the tall, broad conifer trees merging into a long, seemingly endless, green hue.

"So you're at college," Jeb begins. "What do you study?"

"English and Creative Writing," I say.

He smiles. "I suppose I should have guessed. You loved being read to when you were younger, and was always insistent on going to the Library, lugging half a dozen books out with you."

I smile, also, as the image of a girl of around five vividly forms in my mind. She's struggling with a hefty pile of books as she comes out of the library. Her blond hair is secured in high pigtails, and she's grinning from ear to ear when she sees her dad waiting for her. She rushes towards him, the stack of books threatening to collapse before her father jogs over towards her, taking the books from out of her small arms. The girl giggles and the father warmly remarks, "What am I going to do with you, Max?"

I frown when the memory ends. I watch him from out of the corner of my eye as he takes a turn on the road, and we enter a car park. Resentment fills me for a moment, igniting the burning questions, _Why the hell did you leave me? Wasn't I enough?_

But then the car becomes stationary and Jeb's getting out of the car. I follow suit slowly behind.

We grab a booth near the end of the café, absently flipping through the menu, neither sure what to say. The tension is thick and heavy, pressing down on us until I'm almost certain I'm going to bolt because it's just too much: too much emotion, too much resentment… I'm not sure I can forgive Jeb like Fang has his dad. I'd waited so long for him to call, and then, when he didn't, I just substituted longing for loathing and hatefulness.

"Are you ready to order?" Jeb asks, his eyes still on the menu. But when I don't supply a response, he looks ups, his eyebrows raised in question.

I nod tightly, and ask for just a cup of coffee: I'd gotten very little sleep during the night, my mind absently preoccupied on Jeb and what I was going say and do, and how I was going to find some resolution from this meeting. So coffee, right now, would be _more_ than welcome.

He gets up, and goes to place our order. My eyes survey the café: it's fairly modern, with several white circular tables traversing round the room. Wilting potted plants are dotted here and there, but due to their obvious lack of care, they give the place a somewhat despondent feel, which even the vibrant coloured seats and wall paintings fail to uplift.

Walking diligently back over with two steaming cups in hand, Jeb places them meticulously on the table.

"So," he says, still just asenthusiastic, "do you have any hobbies?" He blows on his cup, and the flimsy wisps of steam instantly dissipate. "Tell me whatever you like," he continues.

"I love reading, of course, and I play the piano," I say.

He smiles broadly at my latter utterance. "My mother, your grandmother, was a wonderful pianist."

"Really?"

"Yes," he replies, nodding enthusiastically. "She was a great woman."

I frown. "Was?"

Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, he nods. "She passed away just before you was born." He pauses. "She tried to teach me when I was a kid, but I just never got the hang of it." A small smile forms on his lips, in remembrance, and then he laughs, loud and unrestrained. "I have no hand eye coordination whatsoever, you see, so trying to play two different things at once, was nigh on impossible for me."

"Oh," I say. "Well, I play in a quintet, as well, with four other string players from college."

He smiles again. "It sounds nice." And falls quiet.

After several moments, I say, "Mom said you were a scientist," not wanting to be trapped in that stifling silence once again.

He nods. "I am. I test new medicines, making sure they're safe for humans."

"You've moved from Canada," I state, "so you must have changed your job, right?" I'm watching him carefully now; he's hunched forward, his head partially bowed. He won't meet my eyes.

"Yes, I did. I'm now working in the city."

"Didn't you like it there, back in Canada?" _Didn't they have phones there, back in Canada?_

"It was nice," he says, "but a better job presented itself here…"

"So you seeing me now, is just to do with convenience," I interject, my voice hard.

"No, it's not," he protests, seemingly flustered.

"Because I don't see how picking up a phone is that difficult, y'know," I say. I'd snapped, something which I'd promised myself I wouldn't do, but knew that I needed to get it all out. I need to know _why_ he wasn't there for me.

He runs a hand across his face tiredly, and it's only then that I see how weary and aged he looks: much older than his fifty years.

"I'm sorry, Max," he apologises, his voice cracking on my name. "I always meant to call you, honestly, but I just didn't know what to say. The look on your little face when I told you I was leaving…it hurt, a lot. I was going to call you, everyday, but I just kept putting it off and off until a year had gone by, and then another year, and so I thought that you wouldn't want to hear from me when so much time had passed."

I shake my head, angry. A year or two would have been better than a whole freaking TEN YEARS.

"So why now?" I ask.

"I missed you," he replies simply. "It had been too long, and I wanted to apologies. I want to make it up to you; I want to get to know you."

I take a deep breath, my eyes glued to the coffer cup as I listen to the cacophony of conversation from customers, the clinking of cups and cutlery, and the whirring of the fans above us.

"Could you ever forgive me?" he mutters quietly.

My head snaps forward then, my face impassive, unreadable. I don't know how I should feel, and I don't know what I should say. Can I forgive him?

"You left us," I say, "and I didn't know why. I used to think that maybe I'd done something wrong and…"

He opens his mouth to interrupt, but I still his protest by holding up my hand: _let me finish._

"I was only five," I continue, "so I don't suppose I really understood. I still don't, not really." I pause, remembering Fang's words. "But what's done has been done, and there's nothing that can be done to change that. So I…_forgive_ you."

A smile alights on his lips, and he seems somewhat relieved, his rigid posture becoming more lax. "Thank you," he says.

* * *

"I'm back," I shout, as I enter the house, slipping off my boots.

Mom appears in the hallway immediately, her face written with concern and apprehension. "How'd it go?"

"Good, I think," I say. "As well as it could have gone. We both know where we stand, and we've both found out bits about each other, so…"

"Will you be seeing Jeb again soon?"

I hang my coat on the peg, and walk with Mom further inside, into the kitchen.

"We're meeting up in the next fortnight," I say, "as he's going away on a business meeting for a week or so tomorrow."

Mom gives me a small smile, and goes to grab a pair of oven mitts from beside the oven. "I hope everything turns out alright, Max. I don't want him to let you down."

She wraps me in a tight hug.

"Me too," I say.

* * *

_An extract from Chapter 23 of Ambiguity_

_Samantha watches David attentively from out of the corner of her eye. He keeps casting frequent glances at his watch, and then to the main door, and then to the window outside. He's impatient, she can tell, as he keeps tapping his foot at an erratic pace, drumming his fingers consistently against the table. And she knows what's caused this behaviour: Sarah, the girl to whom he was supposed to be meeting. She doesn't know anything else about her, having failed to entice anything more from David, save that she isn't his girlfriend. _

_The main door groans open suddenly, and a small boy, around four with a head of unruly brown locks, comes dashing inside._

"_Matthew!" A young woman's voice scolds. "Come back here, right this second."_

_The boy totters to a stop, the mittens sticking out of his bright green coat swinging from out of the arms by a tenuous thread of wool._

_The boy turns around, waiting for who Samantha presumes is his mother. _

_A young woman, no older than Samantha, comes into view. She's tall and slim, with dark, curly locks that reach just below the collar of her long, navy coat._

_David stands up immediately, his face filled with uncontained vigour and jubilance. The woman sees him, too, and much the same expression alights on her features. They close the distance immediately, and grasp each other in a long, protracted hug, neither seemingly willing to let go until the small boy begins tugging at his mother's coat._

_The woman pulls away laughing, the smile still fixed in place, and puts a hand on her boy's shoulder._

"_This is my son, Matthew," she introduces._

_David crouches down to the boy's level and warmly greets, "Hello, Matthew. Do you know who I am?"_

_The boy nods timidly, while his hand searches for his mother's. He finds it, and his small hand grasps hers._

_The woman's expression begins to take on a more forlorn look as she watches the interaction between her son and David. "I'm so sorry, David," she apologises, "I should have told you about him much sooner."_

_His head snaps up to look at her in surprise. He straightens up from his crouched position on the floor, and gently leads her into one of the more private booths._

_Samantha sighs dejectedly, no longer able to discern any of their conversation._

_She feels hollow as she listlessly wipes over the bar, her eyes never leaving the huddled group in the corner. _

Was_ she David's girlfriend at some time? she wonders. Is that his son? And if he is, why did he never mention this before?_

**I hope this chapter was somewhat realistic in regards to the Max and Jeb's meeting: I found it particularly difficult trying to put myself in Max's position, as I've never been in one remotely similar. I hope she was in character, also: she never forgives Jeb in the books, yes, but since she's a little older and the situation is different, I thought that maybe Max may be a little more forgiving.**

**There will not be another chapter uploaded for at least another five weeks (sorry if anyone's disappointed) as exams are SO NEAR. And so, revision (ugh!) will have to take priority, even though I would much prefer to be writing. But after that, I can write all I want. Yippee!**

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know what you think – positive or negative – I'm hard, I can take it.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola.**


	25. Breaking Down

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Thanks to everyone who's reviewed - it's really appreciated. **

_David sits in one of the booths, nursing a half full pint of bitter. It's his fourth this night and he knows he should stop, but he just can't draw the strength to leave and go scuttling back to his apartment where his two guests, Sarah and Matthew, await him._

_It's Samantha and the young man perched upon one of the few overstuffed bar stools that have kept him here. _

_Jealousy is a rare emotion for him, as he's always gotten whatever he wanted, whether it be through the vast funds his family have, or the intelligence he'd just been gifted with. But it's this: Samantha laughing over this guy's crummy jokes, that has unexpectedly brought the upwelling of this emotion. _

_The young man tells another joke, and Samantha lets out another bark of laughter. David grits his teeth, waiting for the guy to just slip up and issue some inappropriate remark that will give him the excuse to personally chuck him out._

_Downing the remnant of his pint in one, he gets up, and goes to ask for another._

_And slamming his empty glass beside the young man, David asks, without even meeting Samantha's eyes, "Can I have another?"_

_When he fails to hear her reply, or see a newly pulled pint in front of him, he casts his gaze upward. And when Samantha's dark, accusing eyes meet his, they leave a stab of guilt. But instead of relenting and walking away like he knows he should, he persists, throwing the money on to the bar. He demands, "Another pint, please."_

"_No," Samantha says, her voice quiet, and just barely audible over the loud chitter chatter of customers._

"_What?" he asks, frowning._

"_No," she repeats, her expression blank. "I'm not serving you another. Go home."_

_David lets out a strangled laugh, barely believing what he's hearing. How can she refuse to serve _him_? It's partly her fault, after all, that he's been stuck in such a rut lately. Her rejection is still fresh in his mind: the wound her words had inflicted so deep that waves of dejection would still wash over him whenever his eyes would meet hers. The fact that she always finds excuses to extricate herself from his presence just intensified those feelings, also._

"_Why?" he asks. "I've got more than enough money." _Or had_, he remembers, thinking of the inheritance he'd lost because of the dispute he'd had with his father over Sarah._

"_You've had enough," Samantha states. _

_Shaking his head, David pushes the money forward once again._

_He's now captured the attention of the young man, however, who shifts on his stool to fix David with a futile glare._

"_She said no, mate," the young man growls, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt._

"_I'm not your mate," David spits out, taking a threatening step towards him._

"_David," Samantha cries out, alarmed. "Don't."_

_But he's not listening, his attention solely focused on the opposition, who slicks back his blond hair, and stands up. He takes a step towards David, measuring about an inch or so taller, and snarls, "Walk away, mate."_

_David juts out his chin, his fists clenched._

"_Do as he says, David," Samantha encourages, walking around to the other side of the bar, beside him. "Please."_

_Her feeble request causes him to start, sending a bolt of realisation to jolt him back to sobriety. _What the hell am I doing?_ he thinks. _

_Stumbling back, forgetting the money left on the bar, he staggers out of the pub._

"_Wait," a voice calls._

_But he doesn't._

"_Just stop," the voice demands, once again. And he does, but not out of choice, as Samantha has clamped a firm hand on his shoulder, grabbing his arm in the process, also, and holding it prisoner._

"_Let me call you a taxi," she insists._

_David turns round slowly, yanking his arm from out of her grip. "No, it's fine." He runs a hand through his hair, tired: of the feelings he has whenever she's near; of feeling like such a failure. _

_He's never felt more ashamed of himself before._

"_Just go," he continues, and laughs, bitter. "Your boyfriend will be wondering where you are."_

"_Boyfriend?" she exclaims. _

_When he fails to add any more, she continues, "You thought that I was _with him."

_He grits his teeth, berating himself for the accusation. "You guys looked close," he explains._

_Samantha folds her arms and fixes him with a hard look. "Like you and Sarah, you mean. Won't she be wondering where you are?"_

_David rolls his eyes, leaning his back against the wall, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. "She's not my mom."_

"_That's right," Samantha says. "So who is she, huh? An ex-girlfriend? Because that might make that little boy your kid, right?" She shakes her head. "She got knocked up quite young, didn't she? She can't be any older than…"_

"_Shut up!"_

_David had all but shouted at her, startling her, plunging them into an emotional sea of tension and angst. _

_He hangs his head low, his chin resting on his chest. He mumbles, "You don't know anything." He takes a deep breath. "I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you everything. But things just came up, and then…"_

* * *

"Could you help Fang set up those music stands, Max?" Phil asks, frowning over his cello bow. "I've got problems with my bow. The little bugger won't tighten."

I wring my hands together, looking around the hall for some other pressing matter that must be seen to. Streamers and tinsel are decked here and there, sporadically clad in Christmas decorations, too. A tree stands erect in the hall's corner, reaching the great height of seven foot. Coloured lights revolve around it, with crackers snuggled deep within its branches.

And there looks to be nothing left to do. _Damn._

"Fang won't bite," Phil encourages. But then, realising the irony of his statement, adds, "Wait." He looks over at Fang, his eyebrows raised in question. "Do you bite? I mean, people must call you Fang for a reason, right?"

Fang's lips quirk upwards. "I did when I was four." He jerks his head in my direction. "Max gave me the nickname."

Nodding in understanding, Phil goes back to his hunched position, where he meticulously slobbers some lubricant over the bow's mechanism.

I'm still hesitant, however, and go to set up a stand as far from Fang as I can, without it being blatantly obvious that I'm treating him like the plague.

Unfortunately, the stand I'd picked is stiff and uncooperative. _Damn._ And it won't pull out or pull up. _Double damn._

A large hand covers mine then, causing me to jump back, startled, into a firm chest.

"Just me," a deep voice says, their breath tickling my ear.

I rip my hand out from under his, using my elbows to shove him back. "Get off," I demand.

And he does, albeit with a few curse words that feature my name. "Only trying to help," Fang explains.

"I don't need your help."

"Yeah, you did," he disagrees. "You're supposed to twist it, not pull it. That's how these things get broken."

"Guys," Phil shouts, "stop flirting. I'm trying to concentrate."

Rolling my eyes, I remark, "Well, good luck with that, because the schools are beginning to enter the hall. And we're supposed to be playing in the next five minutes."

My eyes take in the students from both the middle school and high school: just like the sports field, both academies shared the same performance hall, which would supply us with a full house.

Nerves suddenly flutter inside me as I realise just how many will soon be here to hear us play. But then my eyes note the group of dancers hiding behind the curtain, and I remember that we would not be the only anxious performers today: the Christmas concert contained numerous acts, and we were just one of the dozen that would be seen this afternoon.

"Shit," Phil mumbles, his cursing barely discernible above the cacophony of shouting teachers and rowdy students. "Could one of you get JJ and Dylan? They're still practicing in that spare classroom."

"I'll go," I volunteer, and quickly make my way to the door.

I'm in the hall when I hear the running footsteps behind me.

"I'll come with you," Fang says, adopting my slower pace once he's by my side. "I left the music in there, and that box is rather heavy to carry."

I grind my teeth, biting back a cutting remark. "I'm sure I can manage on my own. I'm not weak."

He shrugs. "I know. But it's still heavy, and I am in charge of the music."

I roll my eyes at the lame excuse and pick up my pace, increasing the length of my strides. "Go back and help Phil," I shout over my shoulder. "I don't need you."

And when the sound of Fang's footfalls halt behind me, I know I've won.

That is, until he says, "You can't keep avoiding me, Max."

I shake my head, disagreeing and disbelieving, because I could.

And I would.

* * *

"_What should you have told me, David?" Samantha asks. _

_She comes to rest against the wall beside him, gently touching his shoulder, trying to gain his attention. _

_He wipes a sweaty palm across his face, trying to pull the myriad of thoughts jumbling through his mind in to some order. _

"_Sarah's my younger sister," he explains, "and Matthew, her son, is my nephew."_

_He slides down the wall and crouches on the floor. "I saw her for the first time in five years just three weeks ago," he explains._

_Samantha's breath hitches._

"_I was still at Harvard when she got pregnant," he declares, resting his head on his elbows._

_She slips down slowly beside him, and his head snaps to look at her, his eyes wide with panic. "You have to understand," he says, "Sarah was never the kind of girl to ever do that. She still isn't. It was a one night thing…"_

"_It's ok," Samantha assures, gently patting his hand. "She doesn't seem the type, anyway."_

_He nods, relaxing somewhat at her words._

"_Sarah's intelligent," he continues. "She's brilliant, really, and would have surely excelled in anything she chose to pursue." He gives a bitter laugh. "And our father just loved her for that. He had her whole future planned out: what she would study and where she would study. He controlled everything about her life, much as he did for me, but just never to the same extent. She was his protégé."_

_David tilts his head to the side, his eyes firmly fixed on her now, instead of the ground._

"_Sarah and I had always been close, and I knew she hadn't always been happy with our father's strict regimes. She didn't really have any friends, beside me, I suppose. Because as I said, she was bright, so a lot of her peers saw her as some freaky-genius-type."_

_He closes his eyes, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. "When I moved out to go to college, we drifted apart. I just got too caught up in my own life, revelling in the freedom of being away from home." He purses his lips. "I was so selfish, because I just left her there, alone. I should have called home more; I should have_ done_ more. But I didn't, and she grew so unhappy. I never knew this until she told me three weeks ago, because like you, Samantha, she locks everything up, and tries to shut everyone out."_

_Samantha doesn't know how to respond to such a comment, so she doesn't, and just waits with abated breath for him to continue._

* * *

Our applause is loud, with several people whistling and standing up. I spot Ella amongst the crowd, just beside the striking figure of Iggy. And standing on her seat, pointing over at me, she declares, "That's my sister, Max, up there."

I can feel my cheeks burning bright with embarrassment, and dangerously narrow my eyes at her. She just winks in response.

As we file out of the hall, I notice the small smile on Fang's lips. And I can't help the corners of my own mouth from turning upwards, because I know the cause for his buoyant mood. The audience had been going wild in response to his quintet arrangement of bands like Nickelback, Paramore, and Linkin Park. He'd believed those songs would be the most effective way of capturing our teenage audience, and he'd been right.

"Your arrangements were just brilliant, Fang," JJ tells him.

He nods, and issues a small smile in response.

"You rock, man," Phil declares, clapping him on the back. "I wish you weren't leaving us, I really do. I just don't see why we can't add an extra player." He snaps his fingers, struck by an innovative idea, and beams. "We could be a sextet instead!"

Fang shakes his head, however, and says, "Thanks, I really do appreciate your offer. But I have to put my college work first, and I've just gained a few more shifts at this restaurant I work at." He smiles. "The fuel for my new car is eating away at a large sum of my income, also, so I really need those shifts."

Phil grins. "So you finally got those wheels you've been pining after." He nods approvingly. "Nice."

All my string buddies begin to pack away our instruments, while I methodically place our sheet music back in their respective folders.

Dylan's the first to slot his violin and bow in place, and casts an apologetic look at us all, having noticed the message on his phone. "Would it be alright if I left you guys to finish the packing away? It's just my ride is already here, and they're kind of impatient to get out of here."

"No worry," JJ says, fastening the straps on her own case. "There's nothing left to do, is there?"

"Nope," Phil responds, shifting his cello case on to his back. "I'm gonna head off now as well." He smiles broadly at Fang, and holds out his hand, "It was nice playing with you, Fang. You're an amazing violinist, so don't be stranger to the music centre, ok?" Their handshake develops into an awkward one-armed hug, in which I can tell Fang feels particularly awkward about. But Phil's just too enthusiastic and will miss Fang, I'm sure, as they'd become particularly close since September.

Once disentangled from the embrace, another pair of arms immediately encircles Fang: JJ's. This time, however, the hug is more protracted. I frown at this, the crease on my forehead becoming even more prominent when I realise she's whispering something in his ear. He shows no facial recognition to her words, save a quick nod of his head.

"Bye," Dylan says, as he walks out the door. "It was good playing with you, Fang," he calls from over his shoulder, having neither one of them indulged the other in such a compassionate departure; they'd never particularly been 'best buddies'. "And have a good Christmas," he adds.

That just left Fang and I, which I would have quickly remedied by bolting out the door, after the three, but was prevented from doing so by Fang's quick request, "I need your help. I need you to help me carry this box of music sheets to the car, please. I can't do it on my own with my violin in hand, as well."

Sighing loudly, just to let him know how agitated I am by this, I help him heave the box off the table, with me supporting one end of the box, and him the other.

"How've you been?" he asks.

I frown and open the door, wondering whether I hadn't just imagined the quiet utterance. "_What?"_

"How are you?" he repeats, his eyes locking solely on mine. "Did everything work out with Jeb? I've been trying to ask you that for the last four weeks, but you just keep avoiding me."

I shift my gaze from his, grumbling, "And you wonder why."

He stops moving suddenly, leaving us standing still in the hallway. And fixing him with a glare, intending to just drop the box and leave him to shift it on his own, I order, "Move."

"You haven't answered my question," he says coolly. "I'm waiting."

I give a curt smile. "And why would _you_ care, huh?"

"Because contrary to popular belief, Max, I do have a heart. And I do care about people."

"Yeah," I agree, struggling to keep my voice steady, "but just not about me."

He winces. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to. Actions tend to speak louder than words." My eyes catch his again, and for a moment, I worry he's glimpsed the emotions I'd so desperately desired to conceal: heartache, despondency, and an overwhelming desire to just run.

He drops his gaze. "You're not being fair."

"And neither were you," I shout. I take a deep breath. "You need to stay away from me." I clench the box tightly, mildly annoyed that I can't use my hands to wring out my nerves. "I don't know how to feel or act around you," I explain, "and it confuses the hell out of me."

He fixes his lips into a firm line, no doubt trying to contain himself. He drops the box, causing me to jump back in surprise, and letting go of the box in the process. I erase every emotion then, erecting an impassive mask, and wait for him to snap.

"How can I 'stay away', Max? We go to the same college!" He chokes for a moment, running his hands furiously through his hair.

I've never seen him like this; so distraught and defeated. And yet it also illustrates how his words and actions confuse me, because they're just so conflicting and contradicting.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, taking a step towards him. I tilt my head upwards to look him squarely in the eyes.

He just shakes his head dismissively, all previous anger erased in exchange for despair. "I don't know what to do anymore," he consoles.

Frowning, I fold my arms, waiting for him to elaborate.

He keeps his gaze fixed to the ground, and agitatedly rubs the back of his neck.

"I tried to do the right thing," he says. "But I'm not so sure it was now."

I take another step towards him, not following all this cryptic crap, and demand he look at me.

"What the hell are you on about?" I ask.

He sighs. "I hurt you. I'm sorry."

"So what do you want me to do about it?" I throw my arms up in the air, exasperated. "Tell you I forgive you and that we can go back to how things were? Because how exactly _were_ things? Were we friends or archenemies?"

"Neither."

_Oh, for GOD'S SAKE, Fang. Just cut all this elusive, secret shit. _

I'm fuming now, with my hands curled into fists, shaking at my sides. I want to hit him, I want to cry, and I want him to leave me the hell alone.

He reaches out to me with his outstretched hand. I jerk back, glaring. "Don't touch me," I snap. And then I'm walking backwards, out the door, away from him.

"Just leave me alone, Fang."

* * *

_David pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, wondering how best to continue his explanation. _

_Eventually he says, "Sarah told me she met some guy – he was at least four years older than her - at some voluntary thing she'd been signed up to attend by our father. She was only 16 at the time, and still just a kid. My God, if I'd have known about what he'd done to her then, he wouldn't still be…"_

"_Ok," Samantha soothes, "It's ok. You didn't know." And with a sinking feeling, having already pieced together what his next few words will be, she listens to him continue._

"_She was vulnerable – our father was never much of the caring, parental figure. Our mother was more so, I suppose, but none could ever win Parent of the Year Award. Both are just too bloody selfish." He sighs, and runs an agitated hand though his dark, shaggy hair. "But this guy cared for her, she said, and made her feel loved." _

_He takes a deep lungful of air, expelling it in a long, shuddering breath. "He didn't care, however, when she told him she was pregnant. He just left her."_

_David's hands clench into tight fists, his knuckles turning white. And noticing the sudden tension, Samantha wraps her small hands around his fists, trying to unclench them, so that she can intertwine their hands together._

"_She told our parents a couple of months later. She was scared, and didn't know what to do. She should have told me, because I would have helped her, and none of this would have happened_. None of it_. But she didn't, and she told _them._ She told _him.

"_As soon as our father heard, he just lost it and began screaming at her, telling her that she was a disgrace and a worthless bitch that should be cast out on to the streets. He had a reputation to withhold, and couldn't have her tainting it in such a way. Especially when she refused to abort the kid. But she just couldn't do it._

"_And so he kicked her out." David shakes his head in stupefied disbelief. "And our mother didn't even try to stop him. I can't believe she allowed him to do such a thing, but she did. Maybe it was because she was scared of him, or because she also wanted to preserve their reputation. But she let him do it, and even supported the lies he concocted to fob me off with. And me, being the gullible fool I was, brought it. _

"_They told me she'd gone to some private boarding school abroad. And then, when I returned home during the summer, expecting to see Sarah at home, also, they tell me she's staying at some friends villa in Spain."_

_David shakes his head, causing the glints of moisture in his eyes to slip down his cheeks._

"_I was so stupid," he cries, "because I should have known something was wrong when she never returned any of my phone messages or letters. I latched on to the whole rouse about 6 months later, having demanded to speak to her. I thought she was mad at me for a time, and was just refusing to talk to me, giving me a taste of my own medicine since I'd been neglecting her so much. It's then they told me she ran away; just left a note and disappeared._

"_I didn't believe them to begin with, because surely she would have told me, right? We'd been close. But I'd also let her down recently, and began to think that perhaps, they might be right._

"_I was assured they'd hired the best private investigators to search for her, and she would surely be delivered home, and soon. Or she would grow tired of this rebellious stage and come home herself._

"_She never did, however, and it was only until just over a month ago that I discovered the truth."_

_David wipes away the traitorous tears with his left hand, his right arm having slipped around Samantha's waist sometime during his explanation. Her head is on his shoulder as she waits for him to continue._

"_Our mother, however, does appear to have some heart," he says. "She arranged for her to stay at a long distant Aunt's house, without my father's knowing, of course. And Sarah's been there for the last five years, believing that I didn't want to talk to her, and that I was ashamed of her. She would try ringing home, only to be told I either wasn't available, or I simply refused to speak with her. I'd changed accommodation at college, as well, during that time, under the advice of my mother. I never really thought anything of it at the time, because the new dorm I'd been assigned was closer to my classes, so I just thought it was a move brought about by convenience. I never thought they could be so conniving or deceitful or heartless..."_

_He looks at Samantha then, looking disgusted, but not at her, but because of his 'loving' parents. "What kind of people could disown their daughter like that?"_

"_I don't know," Samantha murmurs, her mood severely dampened by the story. It does, however, set off a feeling of mild gratification, forcing her to appreciate what she has – or _had_, because at least her father had been a great man, and her mother caring and kind. And at least she still had her brother, with whom she loved and adored, and had never been more than a couple of days apart from. Her life looked significantly better in that light, when in comparison to the hell Sarah had been subjected to. _She must have been so scared,_ Samantha muses._

* * *

"Max?"

I poke my head from around the corner in the lounge, only to find my mom buttoning up her winter coat, her medical bag placed just beside her feet.

"Animal emergency?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, "complication with a calf delivery. I'm not sure what time I'll be back though, honey, so just make sure you lock the doors and…"

I hold up my hand, stilling her in mid-flow. "I know the drill: don't answer the door to strangers, don't eat all the chocolate chip cookies…"

She nods, smiling, and casts a glance at the wall clock. "It's half nine now, so just make sure Ella's in bed by ten, ok?"

"Will do," I say. "Hope everything's ok with the calf."

"Me too," she mumbles, and shuts the door soundly behind her.

There's creaking on the stairs, pulling my gaze upwards. Ella's clad in her pyjamas, a glass of water in hand. "I'm going to bed," she tells me. "I'm _so_ tired."

I smile wryly at her. "That's got nothing to do with your two hour conversation with Iggy the other night, does it?"

She blushes crimson and turns away from me, quickly waltzing to her room, mumbling, "Shut up, Max."

Chuckling to myself, I survey the lounge, wondering what I should do with my time now.

My eyes latch on to the Christmas tree propped up on the table in the corner. I'd decorated it only the other day with Ella and Mom, and remember all the criticism I'd had to endure from them in regards to my obvious lack of flair for decorating. In the end I'd just been left in charge of placing the star on the tree, which had been just fine with me, because that was the most important part, right?

I notice the few presents wrapped underneath, and know what I'll do tonight. I still haven't wrapped Ella's gifts, or Mom's, for that matter.

But as with tree decorations, I also prove to be challenged in regards to the art of wrapping presents. It's just all too fiddly: trying to get the tape off the role, and then cutting the Christmas paper in straight lines. What's wrong with a simple plastic bag?

And then I run out of sellotape. _Damn._

Grunting, sighing, and throwing the empty role down in frustration, I scribble a quick note for Ella if she were to ever realise I'm out, and grab my keys and head out the door.

Determined, I promise myself I'll finish them tonight, even if I have to go through _two_ roles of tape.

It's surprising quiet on the roads, for which I'm thankful, as I've never been a fan of driving at night, especially when the roads have recently been glazed over with a thin layer of ice.

I drive carefully, the roads lit by the amber glow of streetlamps protruding from either side. The anaemic moon hangs centre stage within the sky's black canvas, surrounded by white stars that glint like pearls in incandescent light.

I park easily, swiftly, in one of Wal-Mart's many parking spaces. And step out of the warm confines of my car, into the night's bitter chill.

"_Get out_," a rough, burly voice yells.

My eyes latch on to the two dark figures across the street. A large man towers easily above the less boisterous, and obviously drunk, figure splayed out on the floor. He points an accusing finger at the drunkard, scolding, "You've had enough, son. Just walk away and go home. Don't make me bar you."

My eyes flit to the large, expansive sign adoring the top of the building: _The Bucket of Blood._

Pleasant.

The larger, heftier man slumps inside, leaving the lone figure on the floor. I'm about to walk away, having no pity for drunks who get themselves in such states, when I hear _his _voice.

The only words going through my mind are _no no no._ Because he wouldn't, would he?

"Fang?" I call, hurriedly crossing the street.

The pub's lights from inside dimly shine on him, allowing me to see the bedraggled mess that is, in fact, Fang.

"You _stupid_, _drunken_ _bastard_," I swear. "What the hell are you doing?"

He squints up at me, struggling to focus, and struggling to talk.

"Max?" he slurs.

"Yeah," I snap. "It's me."

I try pulling him up, slinging his arm over my shoulder so that I can just get him off the ground. But he pushes me away, and goes to cover his face with his hands. "Just leave me alone," he grumbles. And sluggishly, he waves his arms in the air in a _go away_ gesture.

"Listen," I tell him, my voice softening, "I can't leave you out here. It's winter and it's cold. You'll catch hypothermia or something, and then who'll take care of the kids, huh?"

"Mom," he mumbles. "Better…she's better."

I frown, and crouch down low beside him. "She's no longer drinking?"

He shakes his head, his eyes closed. Dirt smears its way on to his face by the action, in which I wipe away with my hand. He tries batting it away, but misses.

"I'm getting you home," I tell him.

"_No,_" he draws out, shaking his head.

"Well," I begin, "I can't stay out here all night. I'm not leaving you, y'know. So help me out, and let me get you in the car. Pretty girls like me shouldn't be out at this time of night," I say, trying to goad him into accepting, "there are bad people around."

"_Beautiful_," he murmurs, "beautiful, Max."

Heat creeps its way into my cheeks.

"Ok," he says, attempting to push himself into an upright position. I help him, winding my arm around his waist, heaving him into a standing position.

"Let's get you home," I say, walking him slowly to my car, my arm holding him upright.

He shakes his head. "No…not home. Can't let them see me…like this. Can't."

"Ok," I say, trying to calm him, placating his worries. "You can stay at mine."

Fang rests against the side of the car as I open the back door, and gently help him slide inside. He keeps mumbling, "Messed up…was stupid…sorry."

And then he slurs, "Forgive me?"

My hand stills on top of my seatbelt. I turn round in my seat, only to find him slumped back, his eyes, for the first time that night, focused on mine.

"What?"

"You hate me," he declares.

I don't respond for a moment, wondering how coherent he is, or as to whether his words are the result of the drunken stupor.

"I don't hate you," I tell him quietly.

"Should do."

"I can't."

He then closes his eyes, his head resting against the window.

I turn back round and go to turn the keys in the engine. But Fang's next words stop me, stilling my breath, and forcing my heartbeat to race.

"I love you, Max."

* * *

"_Our Aunt passed away six months ago," David continues, "leaving Sarah everything she owned. She treated her like a daughter, and welcomed Matthew when he came. _

"_It was then that she decided to try and get back in touch with her family. She sought me out first, having known I'd most likely be working for our father. And she was right, as always."_

_He smiles, remembering their long, emotionally charged meeting. "I couldn't believe it when I saw her, Samantha. I really thought, after all these years, that she was dead. But she wasn't, and with her was this small, shy boy."_

_David runs his hand through his hair again, causing it to stick up at every angle. "We parted late in the evening, having met in the morning, with her telling me everything that had happened back then. I visited my father that night, livid, and having never hated anyone so much as I did then. I wanted to hurt him, and I did." He smiles tightly. "I landed him a black eye."_

_David stands up from his hunched position on the ground, but ensures that Samantha's hands are still in his. He pulls her up slowly, and gently tugs on her hand to lead her back inside, into the pub, so that the dark night sky is at their back._

"_I left the business, obviously," David continues, "and of course, though I would have refused the money anyway, have been written out of my father's will. I would have inherited everything from him before, but not now."_

_Samantha fixes him with a sympathetic look, but knows it's only wasted, because David looks anything but sorry. He looks relieved._

"_I never wanted to run a business," he says, "and I hate all those long, monotonous meetings. But I'd pursued that kind of career, because I'd always been pushed in that direction. I'd never known anything else."_

_They're both now standing in the hall, the kitchen to their right and the bar to their left. The rumblings of conversations are dim from where they are, barely audible. And yet even if the customers were rowdy, and making a colossal amount of noise, neither Samantha nor David would have noticed._

_David smiles, telling her softly, "Things changed when I met you." _

**Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Initially I had written a chapter last week, but did not perceive it as particularly good writing (never realised how hard it would be to get back into writing after five weeks), and then, later, decided to alter the events in this chapter.**

**I hope you enjoyed it. **

**Any kind of feedback is more than welcome.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	26. Accidents

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Thanks once again to all those who have reviewed – really appreciated. **

I'm sitting perched on the edge of a chair, my hands settled around a cold cup of coffee. I close my eyes momentarily, trying to rid myself of the slowly forming headache that is the result of little to no sleep.

My mind had been racing all night, trying to understand the evening's events. But it hadn't, unfortunately, because the only one who can really make sense of all this mess is the figure splayed out across my settee.

Fang shifts in his sleep, burying his face further into one of the tasselled cushions. He's resting on his side, towards me, with his right arm dangling limply towards the ground. A lock of dark hair slips into his eyes, and I have the sudden urge to push it back. His hand, however, comes to bat it away instead.

Leaning back into the chair, I wonder whether I should just wake him up now. But then my eyes roam to the clock on the mantle, and note that the small hand has just reached six. Maybe I'll wait.

Studying his features; the straight nose, the strong jaw, and then picturing those dark, depthless eyes, I ask myself: _Could _he_ love you? Could he possibly… _

No.

Don't be stupid.

Because any hope of such calibre would be a fool's pursuit. He'd been drunk and highly emotionally strung. He didn't know what he was saying. There's no way he could…

Fang's eyes snap open suddenly, instantly locking on mine. Panic alights on his face, and he bolts into an upright position.

"Max?"

I fold my arms. "Yeah," I answer. "It's me. You're not dreaming." My lips stretch into a wicked grin. "Although, you may wish you were soon."

He slumps forward, pale and all raccoon eyed, burying his face into his hands. "Feel like shit," he grumbles.

"You look it."

He glances up from his hands, glaring at me, in which I reciprocate with a raised eyebrow. I watch him, waiting for him to speak, but after a few fruitless moments, decide to stand up; might as well do something useful until he proves coherent.

"How did I get here?" he finally asks, as I enter the kitchen to fetch some aspirin and water.

His words hit me surprisingly hard. _Did he not remember anything?_

"I found you outside The Bucket of Blood," I tell him, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. "You didn't want to go home and have the kids see you like this, so I brought you here."

I step back into the room, reluctant, and hand him the glass of water and pills. "Thanks," he says.

I tentatively perch on the arm of the chair, folding my arms. "For what?"

He shrugs, knocks back the pills, and then washes them down with water. "Everything." He pauses. "I don't normally do that kind of thing – drinking, I mean. I've never been drunk before. I'd never even touched alcohol until last night." He grimaces. "And I won't. Not ever again."

"So why did you?" I ask, my tone sharp. "You've seen what it did to your mom, so why…"

"I just wanted it to stop," he says. "I didn't want to _feel_ anymore." He takes a deep breath. "That's one of the things Mom would say about drinking; nothing looks as bad if you've got a glass in your hand." His dark eyes snap upwards, bearing into mine. "You feel numb."

I shake my head, frowning. "I still don't understand," I tell him. "Last night you said your mom was no longer drinking."

"She isn't."

"Then why are _you_? Surely everything at home is better now, right? Or is it Iggy? Has the bullying gotten worse?" Dreaded scenarios run through my mind, all depicting Dean and those thugs threatening his brother.

Fang shakes his head. "Bullying has stopped. Those guys got expelled. Got caught drinking on school premises."

I relax, expelling the breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. "So what then?" I ask. "What made you do it?"

Fang kicks the blanket I'd draped over him last night on the floor, shifting his body so that he now faces me. He hangs his head low. "You must hate me," he says.

I roll my eyes, annoyed that we're just repeating the scenarios of last night. "We've been through this before," I say.

He looks up at me through his overlong fringe. "When?"

"Last night."

"Last night's rather hazy for me," he says, fixing me with a wary look. "What exactly did I tell you, Max?"

My stomach sinks further because he doesn't know what he's said. He doesn't know that his words had sparked a flame of hope for me.

He must have detected something in my face, or in the silence that had pressed upon us, because he leans closer, so that our knees are now touching. He asks, "What did I say?"

"Nothing," I denounce, pushing myself back further into the chair, away from him. "You said nothing."

He scrutinises my expression a second longer. "You're lying."

I clasp my hands together tightly, flexing and un-flexing my fingers. "It was just nonsensical blabber. Nothing particularly coherent."

"Then just tell me," he demands, "what kind of trash was I spouting?"

_Trash?_

He bites his lip, panic flashing in his eyes. "Please, Max."

He won't relent, I can tell. But how will he react? Will he denounce it to be nothing more than drunken drivel? Or…

"You told me you love me," I say.

I ensured that our gazes remain locked while I told him of his declaration, just so that I could peruse his reaction carefully. I now, however, let my gaze lower, towards the floor, no longer sure. His impassive mask had broken, that was for sure; his eyes soft, filled with anxiety.

"I told you I love you?" he chokes.

I nod.

"Max," he begins, "I – "

I shake my head and stand up, cursing myself for not fabricating something else instead. I should have just lied.

"No, Fang," I say, walking away, into the kitchen, "you don't have to say anything. You were drunk and…emotional. You had no idea what you were saying."

* * *

_Samantha is apprehensive as she crosses the street. _

_Night had set in over three hours ago, removing the comfort of daylight that she often relied on when entering this rough, impoverished area of town. Her bus had been stopped prematurely due to a technical fault, forcing the few unlucky passengers to depart here. _

_Trash litters the street in the form of munitions waste, and the form of young, burly youths. A group of straggly teenagers are huddled inside an alley, smoking, she can tell, as the light from the lighter illuminates their pale faces. She casts only a swift glance at them, unintentionally, of course, but is seen all the same. One of them calls, "Like what you see? Wanna join us, love?" Another adds, "I'll show you a good time."_

_Filled with revulsion and an increasing awareness of the wages lying heavily inside her coat pocket, she picks up her pace._

_She hates this town. She hates this neighbourhood. _

_But where else could she go? _

_The appeal of college was that, after attaining a degree, she would be perceived as more employable, and may gain a much higher paid job, if she were lucky. And yet on further inspection of those dreams, she saw the flaws and the errors. _What about the care bills for Dad?_ she reminds herself. _What about the thieving mother that finds a way to sponge the money off you? And what about Jake and _his _College fund?

_And after all those reductions, there was no money left for Samantha's college pursuit. _You need to forget about what you want, _she tells herself. _The family comes first.

_The amber glow of streetlamps guides her path; casting the only light, save that of the apartment buildings that offer their own internal source from unsleeping occupants._

_The sky is shrouded in dark, condensing cloud, obscuring a full, anaemic moon that she'd glimpsed mere minutes ago. No stars are discernible now, having been swallowed whole by the mass cloud. She studies it longer, squinting, and then realises that the grey mass is being fuelled by flimsy wisps of smoke nearby. _

_There's the wailing sound of a siren, roaring right past her in a blur of red and blue flashing light._

_She rounds a corner, and hears the massing volume of voices; shouting and crying. And then there's the crackle of fire, and the hissing of water saturating flame._

_She knows what it is then; what's caused the smoke, the wail of sirens, and the cacophony of voices._

Don't let it be us,_ she pleads._ Don't let it be us.

* * *

I hear Fang's light tread from behind me. I wish he'd just leave, and let me move on. But he just keeps coming back.

"I need to tell you something," he says. "I need to explain." He sighs. "Please look at me, Max."

But I remain obstinate, refusing to turn round, keeping my eyes fixed on the dark morning outside the kitchen window.

"You should go," I declare, my voice a dull monotone. "I tried calling your family last night, to let them know where you were, but no one answered, so I left a message instead. You'll have to think of an excuse to tell them for your absence. I couldn't think of anything."

Silence.

"No one picked the phone up?" Fang asks.

I turn round then, having heard the apprehension in his tone. "It was late," I remind him, "they were probably all in bed."

He slumps against the wall. "Maybe."

The anxious look fixes a frown on his face, until his eyes widen slightly, and he begins rummaging in his pockets. "Do you have my phone?" he asks.

"No," I answer. "I didn't see one last night, either."

"Shit," he curses. And eyes panicked, biting his lip, he looks at me, asking, "Can you drive me home now?"

* * *

Fang's silent throughout the whole journey. He's worried, I can tell; biting his lip, tapping his fingers erratically against his knee.

"I'm sure they won't kill you," I tell him, my voice lacking the light tone I'd hoped to instil. But our previous conversation had just stuck me in an expanding, desolate pit that's threatening to cave in, burying me.

"I know," he says absently, "I –"

He cuts off as soon as I park outside his house, frowning. "The car's not here," he exclaims, struggling to unclasp his seatbelt quick enough.

"You didn't drive it last night?" I ask.

"No," he answers. And bolts out the door.

I stumble behind him, slipping on an inconvenient sheet of ice. And just as I come up behind him, he turns his key in the door. We slip inside.

"They might still be in bed," I whisper, noting the clock on the wall reading just past seven.

He shows no recognition of hearing me, instead treading quickly but quietly up the stairs.

I wait downstairs, listening as a door creaks open, sounding loud in the unmitigated silence. And then there are the rushed footsteps as Fang traverses across the hall, opening and slamming a number of doors.

My panic spikes. _Are they not here?_

"Fang," I say, apprehensive, as he charges down the stairs. The impassive mask is fixed in place, barring all emotion. "Are they here?"

He shakes his head furiously. "No."

"Well then where…"

"I don't know, Max," he shouts.

I take a step back, colliding with the coffee table. I steady myself by placing a hand on the furniture, my fingers instantly connecting with a sheet of paper. I look down, frowning, and pick it up. My eyes roam across it fleetingly, my stomach sinking straight away.

"Fang," I call, "you need to see this." He pokes his head from out of the kitchen, his expression hard, annoyed, until he sees something in my features – perhaps sympathy. "They're divorce papers," I say.

His eyebrows arch downwards as he takes them from out of my grasp. His lips form the words _divorce_ as his eyes scan the pages. "She never said anything," he says. "She looked…happy yesterday morning. She wasn't sad. She was happy." He closes his eyes, expelling a long breath. "I haven't seen her since then. What if she's had a drink, and left the kids with someone, and then forgot to pick them up?"

I don't offer my own thoughts, because I think he may be right.

Picking up the phone, he pauses, having looked down and noticing that two messages have been left on the answering machine. He plays the first one, which is the message I'd left, and then, plays the second. He drops the phone once it's finished, just as I take in a sharp intake of breath, my hand flying to my mouth.

Fang looks at me. His eyes are wide, coloured with worry, and his olive toned skin has paled. In a broken voice, he asks, "Take me there? Please, Max."

I nod, barely responsive until he charges past me, steering me by the elbow, and out into the bleak morning.

* * *

_The dying roar of flames fails to cool Samantha's fear. The house that stands before her is black with soot, scalded by the fire that had spread throughout every room, and shattered every window._

_That is - _was_ her home._

_Rushing forward to the nearest uniformed officer, and ignoring the shouts for her to 'Get back', she cries, "Is anyone in there?"_

_The officer's infuriatingly calm as he instructs her, "You need to step back, miss."_

"_But I live here!"_

_Pity pools his eyes before years of training kicks in, clamping the lid down on his emotions. "You need to come with me." And he takes her by the arm, leading her away from the police tape, and the massing crowd that had come to witness the spectacle. "Are you Samantha?" he asks, his voice loud to be heard over the calls between firemen, and the hose piped water hitting the dimming flames._

"_Yes," she breathes. It's difficult for her to suck in breath, partly because of the thick, coagulating smoke, but also from her rising panic attack._

"_Your brother, Jake," he says, "has been calling for you."_

_Her knees threaten to buckle from relief, but are saved from doing so by the officer's firm grip on her arm, supporting her._

"_Is he ok?" she asks. Her eyes are wide, her heart pounding._

_He squeezes her arm reassuringly. "He's fine. He wasn't inside the house."_

_Samantha expels a long breath, unequivocally relieved, until she registers the remorseful tone in his voice. She stops abruptly. She looks at him with accusing eyes. "What about Mom? Where is she?"_

_He drops his eyes instantly, confirming her sinking suspicion. "I'm so sorry," he says._

_She makes a strangled noise and drops to the floor._

"_No," she moans, clutching her hands to her face, "no no no…"_

* * *

It's colder than I remember as I jog to my car, barely conscious of my actions. But I know that this is not due to plunging temperatures, but an internal frigidity that had set in from the nurse's words on the phone: "I'm calling from Redwood Hospital. Katherine Ride has been admitted, along with James, Zephr, and Angel Ride, after a car accident that took place around seven o'clock yesterday evening. We strongly advise that any family members come in as soon as possible."

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter. **

**I'd been planning the events – the fire and crash – to take place for a couple of months now. I hope I was able to effectively deliver the suspense, and infuse some emotion into this.**

**Now Max and Fang – they're still not together. But bear with me Fax fans.**

**There may only be a chapter or two left (depending on how the next goes) and a possible Epilogue that may be set a few months/year later. But that's only if the story doesn't feel as if it's reached a proper conclusion, and a few loose plot aspects need to be wrapped up. I will also include one if you, my fellow (and much appreciated) readers, would like one to conclude the story. **

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	27. Results

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**Thanks for all your reviews!**

**This chapter will be a little different from previous chapters, as I've written the events in Max and Fang's life in third person, and not my usual first person account. This was so as to show some of Fang's thoughts and feelings, as well as the other characters – 1****st**** person seemed too restricting for this chapter.**

Rushing into the hospital and pushing past those converged around the reception desk, Fang demands to know where his family is. The receptionist barely casts him a glance, however, and tells him to just wait his turn. He's about to protest; to shout and scream until he's been given a goddamn answer, when she joins his side, slipping her arm through his. And he relaxes, somewhat.

He doesn't struggle as she gently tugs him away, his anger having abated. She's always had much the same affect on him, unless, of course, she was the cause for his temper.

"Let's sit down," Max suggests, gently pulling him over towards a couple of vacant seats. They squeeze past clusters of patients; some idly walking around, working out the aches and pains in their joints from having been subjected to hours of wait, while others are sprawled out on seats, holding bloody garments to wounds.

Shame washes over Fang, weighing him down so heavily he believes he'll never surface from it. And then guilt intensifies his growing despondency when Max gently pats his arm, promising to be return, and soon. He watches her march up to the reception desk, envisioning the hard set of her jaw and the narrowed eyes and how she'd speak in a calm, cold voice, demanding to gain some information as to how his family is. He doesn't deserve her kindness and understanding, he thinks. He'd treated her wrong, told her lies, and hurt her. And everyday he regretted those actions; every time he saw those eyes that had captivated him from the age of thirteen. Because it was then that he'd realised…

"Fang?" There's a gentle tugging on his arm, Max's voice dragging him back to now. "The receptionist says someone will be coming down to see you soon. A doctor's coming."

He nods tightly, not trusting himself to speak. Maybe he's overacting and they're all fine; just cuts and bruises, perhaps. But then the seed of doubt plants alternative scenarios in his mind, causing his hands to clench, and his body to go rigid.

A hand, warm and slight, slips into his. He squeezes back: _thank you._

"Nick Ride?"

His head snaps up, locking on that of a man clad in a dark shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He's in his late forties, perhaps even early fifties, with a receding hairline that has left an outcrop of greying hair. He radiates neither joy nor despondency; a mask erected from years of being within the medical field when a certain degree of detachment between patient and doctor was required.

"Yes," Max says. "This is Nick." She pauses. "Are they ok?"

The doctor hesitates for a moment. "Can we go somewhere a little more private?" he suggests.

"No." Fang's voice startles both of them; they take a moment to just stare at him before the doctor repeats himself, but this time, as an order.

Standing up, Max gently pulls Fang along with her, her grip slowly tightening.

Dread and anxiety dominate each of his thoughts, leaving little room for scrutinising his surroundings. But looking back on this dreadful day, he will remember the resurgence of the colour white; white walls, white floor, white beds. And then that antiseptic smell that infiltrates his nostrils, forever binding the odour to the association of growing fear and guilt.

Traipsing past cubicles, they finally reach an office door with a plaque reading: Dr. Reed. The doctor pushes the door open and they follow suit.

He takes a few steps into his office and turns round, his eyes suddenly soft. This just triggers the building of Fang's defensive wall.

"Sit down, please," Dr. Reed requests, indicating an overstuffed settee in front of them.

Fang shakes his head. "No."

"Fang," Max whispers, "let's just take a seat and…"

"No," he repeats, firmer this time. His eyes fix on the doctor, as he demands, "Just say it. Whatever you need to tell me."

Dr. Reed clasps his hands together, reluctantly accepting his orders. "Ok. Your siblings: James and Zephr are fine. Just cuts and bruises. Angel has a concussion, which we'll want to monitor today. But nothing too serious. They're very lucky."

Relief instantly claims Fang, sending his legs weak. But with Max's presence, and her arm reaching around to grasp his shoulders, he stays upright. He expels a long breath.

"Mom?" he asks, his voice coming out choked. "What about her?"

The doctor's hand comes to sweep his hair from off his forehead; a nervous habit, perhaps, that came when he found news difficult to deliver.

"She's in a critical condition," Dr Reeds declares. His following words barely filter through to Fang, his mind having frozen on those two words: _critical condition. _"We're…our best…injuries….extensive…lot of blood…hard to predict…surgery…next few hours."

"What happened?" Fang's voice is quiet, but still halts the doctor's explanation as if he'd shouted his words.

"Pardon?" the doctor asks.

"How did this happen? How did they crash? I want to know," Fang demands. "Had she been drinking? Was she drunk?"

"We don't know," the doctor begins, "but witnesses claim the crash was due to a car swerving and crashing into the side of her car. That's all we know." His hand sweeps back a lock of hair. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

Fang's fleeting burst of anger has subsided, extinguished by a wave of despair and distress. _I need Mom to be ok, _he thinks. _She can't leave us, too. She can't._

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He closes them for a moment, refusing to let them fall. _Stay strong,_ he orders himself. _The kids need you._

"Where are they?" Fang asks. "Where are the kids? I need to see them. They need me." _And I need them._

"I'll take you to them now," Dr. Reed says. "Follow me."

Max's hand never leaves his as they weave past patients and doctors, sidestepping discarded trolleys and chairs. Her eyes sporadically flit to his face, watching his expression, waiting for tears, if they were to come, to fall. He notices one of her frequent glances and quietly says, "You don't have to stay here; you can go. We'll be fine."

She juts out her chin. "I'm staying."

And her words warm the cold shard of fear that had formed from the doctor's words. Because with Max by his side, he felt a little more prepared to face whatever fate would throw his way. He squeezes her hand again_._

"Fang? Max?"

The small voice belongs to Gazzy. And then a second later a slight figure has charged from behind a curtain separating one of the many cubicles, and is gripping Fang's lower body tightly. Iggy's just behind him, his cane clanking against the floor, until his outstretched arm finds Fang, and he too is gripping his brother hard. Max steps to the side, having released Fang's hand as soon as his brother had charged into his arms. She gives them a moment.

"Mom's in a bad way, Fang," Iggy mumbles, his words muffled by Fang's shirt. "We tried talking to her, but she wouldn't answer. S-she wouldn't -"

"Shhh," Fang soothes. "Mom will be ok. She's tough, she'll be fine."

Iggy pulls away suddenly, regarding Fang incredulously. "You can't know that. Have you seen her?"

"No –"

"Then you don't know." He pauses. "Where have you been? We've been calling your phone –"

"I lost it."

Iggy frowns and leans in towards Fang. He freezes. Gazzy unwinds his arms from his eldest brother, also, pulling back.

"Why do you smell of alcohol?" Iggy asks, his voice a dull monotone, his expression reproachful. He suddenly looks much older; he looks defeated, because his older brother, his rock, has fallen to drink just as his mother had.

"I…" Fang begins, "I -"

"I spilt beer on him," Max interrupts. "He was at my house, I had a drink, accidently knocked it off the table, and it went all over his shirt." She tilts her head to the side, looking at Fang. "Right?"

He simply nods.

Gazzy's lips quirk upwards, accepting the reason. Iggy, on the other hand, remains apprehensive. He doesn't believe the lame excuse, because he isn't naïve and he can easily discern the smell of spirits on Fang's breath. He'd been told bullshit.

"Are you guys ok?" Fang asks. He tilts Gazzy's pale face to the side, examining the stitches that criss-cross along a lengthy cut stretching halfway across his forehead. Bruises had begun to appear, black and blue, along his arms. Iggy's injuries are much the same, save that of a long gash that would not scar, as Gazzy's would.

Guilt once again stabs at Fang as he sees the dark circles under their eyes, and how weary and frightened they both appear. They'd been here, alone, and it had been all his fault. If he'd just been home last night then maybe…

"Where's Angel?" Fang asks, panicked, remembering what the doctor had said. "I was told she had a concussion –"

"Yeah," Iggy interrupts. "They'd taken her for an x-ray to make sure. She's fine though. Just really knocked about." He pauses, and then continues in a quiet voice, "The car hit her and Mom's side of the car. Me and Gazzy weren't as badly injured."

Tears begin to pool in Gazzy's eyes, and not for the first time since the accident. He tries to keep them at bay, but some slip down anyway. Max notices them, and slings her arm around his shoulders, bringing him closer. He accepts the comfort straight away, burying his tear stained cheeks into her jacket. She rubs his back soothingly.

"I need to see Angel," Fang declares.

Iggy nods. "She's in the cubicle across from ours. The doctor's were just checking on her again."

Gazzy leads the way, his hand having slipped into Fang's. Max remains close by, her arm frequently brushing against his, for which Fang is thankful. It lets him know that she's here for him – here for them. And she'll never understand how much that means to him.

They pull back the curtain, only to see a small, pale, and frail looking girl look at them through bleary eyes. She perks up, however, when she sees the taller figures of Max and Fang, cracking a smile. She's tired, incredibly so, but has been told she needs to stay awake just a little longer. And also, she wants to know how her mommy is doing.

She holds out her arms, in which Fang instantly responds to, rushing to her side, and gently cradling her slight form to his chest.

His guilt is so great now that it threatens to overrule him, sending him to his knees, forcing the tears to fall down his cheeks. He wants to just go off into a corner and never come out. But he can't, because they need him, and although he believes he does not deserve them right at this moment, he can't be so selfish.

"How you doing, Ange?" Max asks, perching on the other side of the hospital bed. Angel's arms unwind from Fang, only to circle around Max. She strokes the girl's blonde curls, her heart heavy with sorrow and sympathy. _They don't deserve this, _Max thinks. _Nobody does._ Her eyes cast over towards Fang; his face is drawn, cast in the impassive mask. But she can still discern the guilt and remorse hovering in his eyes in the form of tears. _This will destroy him,_ she realises, _and he'll blame himself for all this mess._

"I'm thirsty," Angel declares, pulling away from Max. "Can I have some juice?"

"Sure," Fang responds, forcing a smile.

"I'll get it," Max volunteers. "I'll get us all something."

She's quick to leave, believing that they needed time alone as a family, until she hears Fang's quick utterance, excusing himself to follow her.

"I'm fine getting –"

"Needed to get out," Fang interrupts, shaking his head. He runs a hand across his face. And when he looks at her again, the mask is gone, revealing a vulnerability that calls Max's arms to reach out to him. She pulls him into a hug. Neither knows how long they stand there for, holding each other, trying to keep each other together. Eventually, they release each other. There are tear tracks on Fang's cheeks, in which he wipes away imminently.

They go to the drinks machine in silence, grabbing a couple of chocolate bars on the way, and head back to Angel's cubicle.

* * *

_Huddled in a blanket, sitting side by side with her brother, his head on her shoulder, Samantha contemplates where they'll be staying tonight. _

_Her eyes reluctantly cast over towards their home: all black and crumbling. Part of the roof had collapsed where the flames had surged upwards, taking out most of the first floor. Smoke still billows out from the windows, and the firemen are still sifting through the house, ensuring that no rogue flames would flourish anytime soon._

_They'd brought the body out half an hour ago. Samantha had tried to shield her brother from the sight, bringing his head close to her body. But he'd seen it all the same. When the ambulance crew had rushed forward, with an ambulance trolley in hand, a black bag in the other, he'd known. And he'd cried._

_She's immensely glad that Jake had not been inside, too. He'd been driven home from school by a childminder, only to come home and see his mom incapacitated on the settee, a bottle in her hand, and another two beside her head. So he'd gone out again, just round the corner, to a friend's house. He'd then returned home, two hours later, only to see the fire billowing inside the window, and then the glass shattered, and the flames burst free. A few neighbours had already filtered into the street, having called for an ambulance._

_Samantha can't suppress the resentment she feels towards her mother, because she would have had a chance, surely, if she'd just been sober and conscious. She would have gotten out. But she didn't, because she refused to stop the drink; refused to acknowledge that she had a problem and she needed help. She still loved her mother though. The pain of loss is still fresh, and is still producing the few traitorous tears that slip down her cheeks._

"_Miss?"_

_Slowly, Samantha moves her head upwards, only to come face to face with a police officer. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Is there anywhere you could stay with tonight? Friends? Family?"_

_She casts her mind through those she knows. She has no other family, save her Dad and Jake. And then friends? She's not that social; too busy working or looking after the home. But there is…_

"_I can call them," Samantha says. "I know where we can stay."_

* * *

It has been over four hours of waiting. Both Gazzy and Iggy have fallen asleep, having been awake all night, and are splayed across one of the waiting room chairs. Angel's well on her way, wanting to remain conscious, but unable to keep her heavily lidded eyes open much longer. Max is beside Fang, her hand in his, her thumb brushing continuously across his knuckles.

The hustle and bustle of hospital life buzzes around them; the murmured conversations, the rowdy complaints from dissatisfied patients, the incessant ringing of the phone, and the whoosh of doors being opened and closed.

Nerves still twist inside Fang's stomach like a snake, occasionally biting, causing twinges of guilt. His mom is in surgery now, having been finally stabilised. Her chances are looking better, for sure, but there's still major surgery to be undergone, and brain damage could not yet be ruled out. There are just too many ifs and buts; too much uncertainty. And he can't doing anything about it, damn it. He's never felt so bloody useless.

"Everything's going to be ok," Max suddenly utters.

He casts a sideward glance at her. "Maybe." He sighs. "Maybe not."

"This isn't your fault, you know," she states. "You can't blame yourself for this."

"Never said I did."

"No," she agrees, "but you're thinking it."

He smiles. "Perhaps." The smile slips from his face. "But it is, really. I wasn't here for them, and I should have been. I should have been at home, not out, getting pissed."

"You weren't to know they'd get into a crash," Max reasons. "You couldn't have prevented it; it was an accident. The driver skidded on some ice, lost control, and crashed into the car, remember? The police told you that. You're not to blame for this. No one is."

His grip tightens on Max's hand. "But I should have been there. I should have been _here_ last night with them."

"But you're here now, aren't you? You've got to stop being so hard on yourself all the time. Accept that you're human, and that we all make mistakes."

Fang doesn't answer this time, but simply nods. _But I've made so many mistakes, _he thinks. _And you, Max, are one my biggest._

"I must sound like some hypocrite," he suddenly says.

Max frowns, turning towards him. "How?"

"Before I even knew how the crash happened, I blamed Mom. I thought she'd been drinking."

"She's an alcoholic, and has only recently quit. You saw the divorce papers at home, which would surely have been something that would have tested her; she may have turned to drink."

"But she didn't," Fang mutters.

"No, she didn't," Max agrees. "And that has to be something to be thankful for, right? She _can_ quit; she _has _quit."

He nods, his reply laconic: "Yeah."

"Nick Ride?" Dr. Reeds stands just off to the side, having descended the stairs from the upper floor to where Katherine Ride was being operated on.

"Yes?" Fang responds, standing up immediately, making his way over towards him, with Max in tow, their hands still joined. "Is she…"

Dr. Reed's lips twitch upwards, the first smile they've seen him give. "Surgery went well. We've managed to repair the damaged arteries, stopping the bleeding. She's still on the ventilator, so we can't be sure as to whether she sustained any brain damage. We'll be taking her off soon, so we'll see the full extent of her injuries."

Fang nods, and relief, albeit partial, floods through him. "Thank you."

* * *

_David arrives half an hour later. He comes harrying towards them, having been directed by a policeman, and waits barely a second, when he stands before them, before pulling Samantha into a long, protracted hug._

"_Are you both ok?" David asks, his arms still loosely around her._

_She'd been sketchy with the details on the phone, simply telling him that there had been a fire and she and her brother needed somewhere to stay and she didn't know who else to call._

"_We're fine," Samantha reports. "We weren't in the house when the fire started." She takes a deep breath. "But Mom..." She cuts off, unable to finish her sentence. David's latched on to what she was trying to say, however, and slings his arm around her shoulders, while his other hand rests on Jake's shoulder. He steers them towards his car._

"_Let's get you all to mine," he says, "away from here."_

* * *

"You can see her now," Dr. Reed informs. "She's awake."

Max closes her eyes for a moment, relief fleetingly paralyzing her.

Fang and his siblings stumble from their seats, all rushing towards the doctor as one body. But he holds up his hand, halting them, and instructs, "Two people at most. She really needs her rest." And then, stepping to the side, he waves Fang over. He whispers, "You're Mom's hooked up to a couple of cables and tubes. She doesn't want the younger kids to see her like that; she just wants you and Iggy to go."

Fang nods mutely and casts a guilty glance at his younger siblings, who both look excited to see their mom. "Thank you," he says, voice horse, "so much."

Dr. Reed claps Fang on the back. "We haven't detected any brain damage. Everything appears normal."

Hope arises in Fang, almost daring him to believe that this nightmare could be put behind them, and soon. "Will she be ok?"

The doctor nods. "She's recovering well. It looks promising."

* * *

_They arrive at David's flat a little past twelve o'clock. Samantha cradles Jake to her chest, both finding solace in each other's close proximity. _

_He turns the key in the door, searching for the light, which flicks on, revealing a room scant of all belongings, having all been packaged away inside cardboard boxes that litter the corners of the room. The walls are painted white, the floor covered in a cream carpet, concealed partially by a dark, dishevelled rug. The only furniture is an overstuffed settee set in the middle, a decrepit chair not far away from that._

_David takes a step inside. Samantha, however, doesn't. "Have you just moved in?" she asks, her voice a little higher than usual._

_He shakes his head. "I was going to tell you –"_

"_Are you just moving into another apartment?"_

"_No."_

"_Town?"_

_He doesn't answer._

"_Are you moving city?" she asks. _

_No answer._

"_STATE?"_

_He turns round, fixing her with the saddest and most sorrowful expression she's ever seen. But it doesn't calm her; it riles her._

"_I'm moving to Virginia. I'm going to stay with my sister for a little while before I get a place of my own over there," he explains._

"_When?" Samantha asks, her hold on her brother tightening._

_David sighs, his eyes casting downwards to the exhausted figure of Jake. "Will you come inside first? And then we can talk. Your brother needs to get some rest."_

_She looks downwards, and notes her brother's pasty complexion. He lets out a loud yawn, leaning against Samantha for support. _

"_Ok," she agrees tersely, gently tugging her brother inside with her._

_David rummages through a box, retrieving a tee shirt and shorts, and hands them to Samantha. "He can wear these if he likes. You can both sleep in my room. I'll take the couch," he reports._

_Samantha nods, in no mood to say thanks, and guides her brother to the room. She waits for him to change, and when he has, tucks him into the bed, kissing his forehead and assuring him they'll both get through this. Because they had to, right?_

_Softly closing the door behind her, she turns to David. "When exactly were you going to tell me about you moving?" she whispers. _

_His eyes flit down to the ground. He rubs the back of his neck. "Soon. I was going to tell you soon."_

_Samantha takes several steps forward until she's in front of him. Her lips are pursed, her arms crossed. She's struggling under the upwelling of emotions that have her wanting to cry, to scream, and to just fall to her knees, giving in to them all._

_He flicks on a small lamp standing erect on one of the boxes, and turns off the main overhead lights. They now stand submerged in partial darkness, the only light coming from the dim bulb and the full moon that casts a faint glow through a window that overlooks the street._

"_What about your job?" Samantha asks. "What about you friends?"_

"_I gave my notice in two weeks ago," he says, and shrugs. "And I don't have many friends."_

"_But…" Samantha begins, struggling to order her thoughts into some coherent sequence. She wants to say 'What about ME?', but knows that she doesn't have the right. Especially since she's treated him wrong; lied to him and ignored him. "You can't leave," she says weakly. Her shoulders slump._

_He takes a step towards her, his eyes glazed with tears. "I need a fresh start, and I can't do it here. There's nothing for me here."_

_Samantha runs her hands through her hair in frustration. She turns round sharply, away from David, not wanting him to see her agonised expression. Everything is just going to shit, and there's nothing she can do to prevent it. She sees her life much like a train going at a rickety tempo; it has just traversed off the rails, and the remnants of the wreckage seem unsalvageable._

* * *

Fang casts a swift glance at the dozing passengers in the back of Max's car. Iggy's leaning against the window, while Angel, squished in the middle between her two elder brothers, rests against him. Gazzy's head is angled towards the window, also, his mouth partially open. Fang's lips twitch upwards.

And following their example, he rests his head against the window, as the first waves of lethargy begin to sweep through him. This is only intensified by the darkening sky, in which grey clouds have begun to manifest, prophesising rain. His eyes flit to the digital clock above the CD player, which reads; 19:30.

They'd left his Mom to rest in the ward, and would be visiting her tomorrow morning. She'd looked pale, with cuts sporadically plastered across her arms and face. But overall, she'd seemed fine – or as fine as one could be after undergoing intensive surgery – and had even imparted some advice to him.

She'd reached for his hand, and he'd taken it. "You need to do what you want," she'd whispered. "In case anything happens…to me, I need to tell you-"

"Don't talk like that," he'd soothed, taking her hand in both of his. "You're going to be fine."

She'd forced a smile. "I was going to tell you this before, anyway. It's just more important now." Her eyes had fluttered shut for a moment, before she'd said, "I'm so proud of you for taking care of this family. I've been useless -"

"You weren't to bla-"

"Let me finish. You've been there for them, when I haven't. You've given up a lot." She'd shaken her head. "Don't. Not anymore. You get one life, so don't waste it. I don't want you having any regrets."

Fang had frowned, a little confused as to what she was specifically referring to. He'd wondered whether her speech was the result of the drugs they'd given her for the pain.

"Iggy's told me about Max," she'd continued. "He told me how close you were, and how you aren't anymore." She'd gripped his hand a little tighter. "I don't want that to be because of me. I want you to have a life." She'd forced her eyes open then, and said more forcefully, "Things will be better from now on. You won't have so much responsibility. _I'll _be the parent again, ok?"

He'd left soon after, her having finally succumbed to a medicated sleep. But her words had stayed with him: _'You get one life, so don't waste it…don't want you having any regrets.'_

He casts a surreptitious glance at Max, whose attention is focused intently on the roads. She bites her lip, and his heart beats a little quicker.

* * *

"_I won't leave yet. I can still stay a few more days," David tells Samantha, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. "I'll stay as long as you need me to." _

_She grins sardonically, her back still to him. _

"_I thought you were going to go to culinary college around here," she says. "You had it all planned out."_

_He sighs, and removes his warm, comforting hands from her shoulders. She can just imagine him doing that habitual rubbing of his neck; a nervous action he always performed when he felt uncomfortable. "I was," he says. And then, "You should try and get some sleep. A lot's happened tonight, and I'm not helping by –"_

"_I'm fine," she insists, raising her voice. She faces him now, her expression hard, her lips fixed into a firm line. "What made you change your mind? You were still planning on staying around here after you found out about your sister. So why-"_

"_Don't, Samantha."_

"_But why?" Her words are tinged with hostility. She takes a step towards him, their noses mere inches apart._

"_It's_ _too_ _hard," he declares, his voice cracking with strain. His face is etched with turmoil, his dark eyes sincere. "I thought I'd just stop," he whispers. "I thought I'd move on, but…"_

"_What are you on about?"_

"_You," he tells her softly. "I-I find it hard to be around you." His hand reaches out to her before he knows what he's doing, and caresses her arm. She moves into his touch, giving into him, just for a moment. "And yet I want to be with you all the time. I want to give you the life you deserve. I want you to love me back." His arms drop to his sides. She misses his warmth, but is too transfixed by the emotion congealing in his eyes to feel too stung by it. "But you don't feel the same way," he declares, and drops his gaze. "So I need to move on, and I can't do that by staying around here. I need a new start in life."_

"_But I need you," she whispers, her voice cracking. They're close, so much so that a slight movement forward of her hand would bring her into contact with him._

_David's eyes are fixed on the floor when he says, "And I need you to understand why-"_

_He doesn't have a chance to finish his sentence as Samantha roughly cups his face in her hands. She kisses him, and he starts, having not expected her lips to be on his. He eventually responds, kissing her passionately. She winds her arms around his neck, bringing him even closer. And then after several moments, Samantha reluctantly pulls away, goes on her tiptoes, and brings her mouth close to his ear. She whispers: "I love you. I always did."_

**I hope I was able to inject the right amount of emotion, and I haven't rushed this chapter too much. Also hope no one minded the third person narrative too much. Your thoughts are always appreciated.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	28. How It Ends

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

Two months.

That's how long it's been since the accident took place. Fang's mom is recovering well, Iggy and Angel's injuries have healed, and although Gazzy's gash has left a silver-pink line etched across his forehead, the accident is now a fading nightmare.

During their mom's stay in the hospital, I would visit the family everyday; driving them to visit their mom (as their car had been damaged beyond repair), and watching the kids while Fang was at work. I wasn't sure what to expect between Fang and mine's interaction with one another; was it to be comfortable and filled with easy-flowing words, as it had been before, or would it be tense and awkward?

It contained equal bouts of both. This was, however, only when we were alone, which was not for every long, as the kids were always with us and we'd talk amongst them, instead of having our own private conversation. But even when we did find ourselves solely in each other's company, we seemed fixed in an ambience of tension and nerves. I got the impression he wanted to say something; when I'd notice his stare from the corner of my eye, or the way his brow would sometimes furrow, as if he were having some internal debate within himself. But he never did.

Eventually my visits grew less frequent, and they needed me less and less until their mom finally joined them back home. College then began, and any communication, for the most part, ceased between us. There's still curt nods when in passing, however, and the brief update on his family; sometimes delivered on his own accord, or after my own query as to their well-being.

I'm sitting in class right now, absently listening to Mr. Smith outlining our next assignment. My eyes linger on Fang's dark form. He's sitting a row in front of me, a couple of seats to my right. He's scribbling down notes profusely, most likely in that illegible scrawl only he can translate. I'd never seen him so committed, as I had the last three months, to learning. I thought his hard-core studying might subside after his re-sit exam came out exceptionally high, but it hasn't, overall. I still catch him scampering out the Library just before closing time.

God, I miss him. I miss the banter, his stupid smirk, and the words that could flow so easily between us. I miss the silent conversations we could have through a protracted look; we would always be on the same wavelength. But there's now a miss communication, and I can no longer discern what he's thinking and feeling.

My thoughts then flit to Dylan and how he'd approached me a couple of weeks ago, asking me whether I wanted to go out; see a movie and grab some dinner. I'd declined, however, telling him I was busy – which I was, as I had arranged to visit some of Jeb's relatives with him – and that I'd prefer us to remain friends.

It was silly, really, my whole evasion to having a relationship with a nice, caring guy. But I knew I'd never fully commit and most likely end up hurting him. I'm still waiting for Fang, as stupid as it sounds, to profess a love I know he doesn't requite.

"Class dismissed." Mr. Smith's voice snaps me from my reverie. The girl beside me – Terry? – still remains in her seat, however, while the rest of the class rushes out the door. Her head is bent over a book, and she doesn't appear to have heard the professor's dismissal.

"Um," I begin, "you know class has finished, right?"

She doesn't stir, showing no sign of having heard me. "Terry?"

No response.

Gently, I give her a poke. Her head snaps up then, and there are tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. "You ok?" I ask. My voice is tinged with surprise and concern.

She sniffs and runs a hand across her eyes. "I'm fine," she sobs, "I'm just happy."

_Really?_

Some blonde hair slips into her vision, which she tugs back, fixing it into one of the many clips that holds her hair up in its intricate twist.

"I've just finished reading Ambiguity," she says. "Oh, Max, it's just wonderful. Did you cry at the end, too?"

I bite my lip. "I haven't actually finished reading it yet," I confess, and fish out my own copy from my bag.

She gasps. And then snatching the copy from out my grasp, she rifles through the pages until she's reached the turned down page I'd left to indicate my place. Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes still a little red and brimming with moisture.

I'll admit that it's very unusual for me to not have concluded a novel, as I _always _have. But, for whatever reason, I haven't been able to bring myself to finish this one - there's just something about it that's left me too nervy to turn the next page.

"_WHAT?_" she screeches, furiously waving the book at me. "Don't you know how it ends yet?"

* * *

I'm in the music room alone. The majority of those majoring in music are at a concert, having been encouraged by their professors to watch this esteemed pianist while he's still in town. I'd known this before I'd arrived here, but had sought some solitude and sat myself in front of one of their many pianos, playing whatever came to mind. The light is dim, as only one of the main beams have been switched on. The room is windowless, allowing the walls to be plastered in posters of musicians and theatre productions, partially obscuring the room's dark walls.

I play just a couple of bars of music before the door whams shut, indicating someone else has just entered the room. I don't turn round, just expecting it to be a returning music student.

"You play beautifully. Did I ever tell you that?"

I freeze, and my hands still atop the keys.

"Don't stop playing." Fang's voice is soft, his tread barely distinguishable as he walks towards me. "I've missed hearing you play."

I don't continue my rendition. My thoughts are too focused on why he's here, and why, after all these weeks, he's decided to indulge me with a few flattering words.

He's beside me now. I don't need to look at him to know there's a frown fixed on his face; confusion as to why I've said nothing.

He takes a seat beside me. The piano stool is only meant to accommodate one person, and so his leg touches my leg, and his arm touches my arm. My breathing quickens.

He presses a couple of notes on the piano.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, surprise and anxiety sending my voice a little higher.

Then without even casting a sideways glance at me, he halts his playing and delves into his bag, pulling out a copy of Ambiguity. He places it atop the piano. "You left this in the classroom," he explains. "Terry told me to give it to you."

"Oh."

"She looked a little upset."

I smile and shake my head in disbelief. "She's just really happy; she'd just finished reading the book."

Fang's lips tug upwards into his signature half-smile. My heart gives a tight squeeze; an indicator that I need to get up and leave because pining after this guy will just result in more hurt. But then his head tilts to the side and he fixes me with dark, intense eyes. "And what did you think of the ending?"

I shrug, trying to ignore the nerves bunching in my stomach. "Haven't finished it."

"Don't you want to know how it ends?" His gaze flits towards the book before snapping back to mine. "I could tell you, if you like."

I shake my head and stand up, manoeuvring myself to the other side of the piano, resting my arms on top, while he remains on the piano stool. I want the space, because in that too-close proximity, I was bound to blush or stumble over my words.

"I'm not sure," I answer truthfully. "I kinda like the idea of having my own ideal ending."

He studies me for a moment. I blush, uncomfortable under his gaze.

"How would you have it end?" Fang asks, standing up, plucking the book from off the piano. His eyes never leave mine as he comes to stand beside me.

"How would I like it to end?" I murmur, repeating his words. "Well," I begin, "I'd have Samantha explain to David why she felt so compelled to lie to him; to tell him why she 'led him on'."

"Isn't it obvious?" he whispers.

"Not to David," I snap. "We're not all mind readers, Fang."

At this his shoulders slump, his head bows, and he takes a deep breath. But when he brings his head up, resignation has been displaced by determination.

"Can I read you something?" he asks. He flips through the pages of Ambiguity, eventually stopping, having found his desired page, and awaits my approval to go ahead.

I nod and he clears his throat. He reads:

_Samantha needed David by her side; teasing her and laughing with her, supporting her and loving her. There was no way she could let him go a second time; the first time had been to protect him, ensuring his life wouldn't be hindered by hers. She saw now, however, that she'd been wrong. _

_She needed him and he needed her. _

_So why should she subject them both to the pain of rejection and loneliness by keeping them apart any longer?_

_It was a chance, yes, but one worth taking, because she loved him unconditionally and would, surely, forever. _

Fang closes the book, takes a few tentative steps forward, and gently places it in my hands. He doesn't retreat back, remaining close by, right in front of me, his eyes watchful and filled with...

His brow furrows slightly, probably at the abject confusion alighting on my face. I place the book on the stool behind me.

"Please understand," Fang whispers, "that I never 'led you on'; I meant every gesture and every word. But at the time, what with everything going on, you'd have done better to stay out of my family's mess. It was already screwing up my life; I couldn't let it do the same to yours."

Hope floods through me like a cool, freezing solution: stilling my breath and slowing my thoughts.

And then his hands, warm and familiar, settle on my shoulders. They slide slowly down my arms, capturing my hands with his, entwining our fingers together.

His touch sparks a jolt of realisation, and suddenly his words hit me hard; he never rejected me, he was just trying to protect me. I feel my mouth drop open; stuck for words. And then rising excitement and hope take me over.

"Don't push me away again," I order. "It's my choice as to whether I put up with your annoying self, ok? Not the other way around."

He's grinning as he gently tugs me closer, resting his forehead against mine. He murmurs: "Don't think I could again."

My heartbeat quickens.

I'm struggling to catch my breath.

And then he whispers: "I love you, Max. So much." His lips twitch upwards. "Always have; even when we were kids, and I'd tell you how much of a pain you were."

I narrow my eyes, gracing him with a mock scowl. But it's futile when my lips are forming a slow smile, so I slightly shuffle back, impacting with the stool. Something smacks against the floor – the book? – but is soon forgotten when his lips swoop down to meet mine.

He kisses me sweetly, and I wind my arms around his neck, bringing us closer, eliciting a more passionate kiss.

After several moments, we part, but keep our arms locked in place around the other; my hands remain linked behind his neck, while his remain placed on my back, rubbing slow, soothing circles in between my shoulder blades.

His face shines openly with elation and exhilaration, stretching my goofy grin even wider. A hand slips from behind my back to remove a stray strand of hair that had slipped in front of my face. He positions it behind my ear and fleetingly rests his palm against my cheek. His forehead lightly touches mine as he whispers, "You've no idea how long I've wanted to do that." And then his lips are once again on mine.

Eventually our kisses slow, halt, and I place my head in the crook of his neck. This feels right; to be in his arms, feeling safe and loved.

And since I'm done with ambiguity, I tell him, "Love you, too."

* * *

_An extract from the final chapter of Ambiguity_

_Samantha lies on David's browbeaten couch, her head resting against his chest, his arm encircling her waist. A blanket stretches over them both, warding off the mild chill that shrouds the apartment. She listens intently to the thud-thud of his heartbeat and his steady, rhythmic breathing. _

_Sleep won't come, as her mind is still a whir of thought and contemplations. Her mother's death still ways heavily on her; the painful hole it had torn still achingly fresh. But with time, David and Jake would heal that. The mention of her younger brother sparks a jolt of panic to run through her at the thought of planning the funeral and a new home and…_

_His arm unconsciously tightens around her, dulling her rising alarm. Because with David by her side, Samantha felt a little more prepared to deal with whatever fate had to throw her way._

* * *

**Thank you for all the reviews I've received over this story – they've been really appreciated and very helpful, particularly in regards to grammar.**

**I hope you've enjoyed this ending - they're finally together! I've certainly enjoyed writing this story, and I've learnt a lot from doing so. **

**Let me know if you'd like an epilogue to conclude the story. It may be that you believe it's reached an appropriate end, and that a 'year on' chapter may not be necessary.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Peace, love, and coca cola!**


	29. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

**The previous chapter has undergone some slight alterations, notably a small addition of an extraction of Ambiguity to conclude it.**

"It's been a pleasure to teach you all," Mr. Smith declares. He's sitting perched on the edge of his desk, arms spread open, indicating us all. "These last two years have really flown by; I can't believe it's been that long. Your new professor, I hope, will be just as good, if not better, than me."

There's a swift round of applause and an outcry from one of our more vocal peers, "No one'll beat you, Sir."

Mr. Smith's lips twitch upwards in amusement. "Thank you, Michael." And then, with a final wave to the door, he says, "Good luck in the future."

As the students stand up, filing towards the door, the enormity of the situation suddenly sets in. I'll never be in this room again; I'll never be lectured by Mr. Smith _again._ And then after, with only one final year remaining of college, I'll graduate and be unleashed on the world of work. Things change, I know, and you just have to accept and adapt. I just wish these transitions weren't so soon and so frequent.

"Ready to go," a low voice whispers, close to my ear.

Then again, I don't mind _some_ changes.

A hand moves to my back, resting there lightly, while another hand heaves my bag from off the floor.

"Whoa," the voice says, "what have you got in here? Dead body?"

"Don't be silly," I scold. "I'd need a bigger bag."

Fang's lips tug into a grin, and a lock of hair slips into his eyes. I casually brush it away, but my hand never makes it back to my side as Fang captures it with his, linking our hands together, swinging them between us. The sudden thrill and thread of warmth that accompanies his touch never gets old; each gesture, although habitual now, never fails to send my heartbeat stuttering. It's really sad, isn't it?

He gently tugs us out of the empty classroom, leading us into a car park jam-packed with reversing students and poorly parking newbies.

"So," I begin, "what are our plans now?"

Fang unlocks his car door and we slip inside, my hefty bag slung underneath my feet.

"Depends on what you're referring to," Fang says. "If you're referring to what we'll be doing in the next couple of years, after college, then I'll hopefully be pursuing a career in journalism." He casts a sideways glance at me, noting the frown aligning my forehead. He continues nonetheless, the smirk carrying into his tone. "You, on the other hand, will become a famous writer, fabricating stories that feature your flying bird kids who try and save the world from the perils of evil scientists and global warming."

I roll my eyes at this, grumbling, "Shouldn't have told you my idea."

His expression softens at this and he leans forward, his seatbelt straining against his looming form. "You know I think it's a great idea," he says. "You know I think you're talented."

His words and his close proximity spur a blush to colour my cheeks. His right hand caresses the side of my face.

I'm struggling to keep coherent thought – blame Fang and those dark, depthless eyes – so I place my hands on his shoulders and 'gently' push him back.

He playfully narrows his eyes at me, turns the key in the ignition, and checks to see if there are any stray cars passing behind us in the side mirrors, which there isn't, and reverses out of the parking lot.

"You still haven't answered my previous question," I remind him. "You haven't told me where we're going."

His eyes briefly flit over to mine. "It's a surprise."

I fold my arms and slouch in my seat. "I don't-"

"-like surprises," Fang finishes. "Yeah, I know. But you'll like this one, I hope."

The vulnerability in his tone seals all protests on my lips. That's the one change, Fang's more open display of emotions, that always seem to take me by surprise. And even after this last year and a half of us being 'together', I still find myself marvelling at the change between us. Yes, the banter is still there, the quips just as cutting. But there's no confusion, no sleepless nights of trying to unravel his words, and there's no denial of the feelings that have always lingered between us.

"What are you thinking about?" Fang's soft voice interrupts my thoughts. He casts me just a fleeting glance before resuming his attention on the tricky junction ahead.

My eyes roam across our surroundings, taking note of the fact that we're not far from his house. "Just thinking about us," I answer. "And how much things have changed."

The car begins to slow as we enter his street. White fences divide each home, mail boxes stand erect out front like sentries, while trees and shrubbery act as the only distinguishers between the uniform setting of each of the houses. Fang pulls into his drive and cuts the engine.

He turns to me then with a small smile. "Ready for your surprise?"

I roll my eyes. "Come on then."

As we exit the car and stroll up the drive, our hands having met again, I ask, "Are your mom and the kids home?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. Mom's at work, Angel and Gazzy are at their friends' houses, while Iggy is with Ella."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Is he now?"

"Yep." Grinning, Fang inserts his key, unlocking the door. "Saw them holding hands in the park the other day. They say anything to you about it?"

"Nope. She's dreading my teasing, I think."

We step inside, discarding our shoes in the hallway. "You'd tease your little sister about her love life?" He shakes his head in mock disapproval.

I scoff. "She's been teasing me for years about me being infatuated with you."

"Which you were."

I'm about to protest, my mouth already forming the words, when he spins me round, gently, his hands coming up to cover my eyes. His lips briefly brush my ear when he whispers, "You ready for your surprise now?"

I shudder at his touch and the softness of his words. I nod.

Carefully he manoeuvres me into his lounge, fortunately avoiding all possible collisions with furniture. We take a few more steps – into the kitchen? – before he clamps his hands firmly on my shoulders, stilling me. My eyes are still closed, having decided to play by his rules.

His mouth by my ear once again, he whispers, "Open them." And I do.

The dining table is covered in a white cloth, set for two. Napkins and cutlery have been placed neatly at the two places, a wine glass placed beside both. A bottle of fruit juice has been placed precisely in the middle – no alcohol ever breaches the house now. His mom has remained sober for almost two years, and Fang has always remained apprehensive about jeopardising that. I'm not a particular fan of wine, anyway, and Fang refuses to touch a drop after that one night binge he had.

Candles, red and already lit, are also set in the middle. It's the only light in the room, save that of the bright sun broadcasting through the window overlooking the kitchen counter, the dining table a few feet from that.

His eyes watch me reproachfully. He bites his lip.

"Thank you," I murmur.

He nods mutely, his lips forming a slow smile. My arms wind around his waist, bringing him closer. I rest my head in the crook of his neck, his head coming to lightly rest on top of mine after his places a fleeting kiss on my forehead.

"You can tell me how amazing I am for the rest of the evening, if you like," he suddenly says.

I roll my eyes, pulling out of from the embrace. "We'll see how well you cook me dinner."

His arms linger around me before he slips behind the counter, turning to light the oven and grabbing some pots from under the sink.

"Want any help?" I ask.

"Nope," he answers, digging out some potatoes from the cupboard. "Not after Ella told me you were such a lousy cook."

I gape, about to retort, when my phone begins to buzz loudly in my pocket. Pulling it out, I note the caller ID: Jeb. I pick it up on the third ring, lifting it to my ear. "Hey," I greet. We exchange pleasantries before he gains confirmation that I'll be available to join him and Ari for a bite to eat next weekend. We'd kept in touch despite my initial belief that we'd part. Our meetings weren't frequent, just a phone call or a dinner or coffee every month or so.

Even though I'd forgiven him for that long abandonment, it had still left scars, and they were permanent; able to fade, but always there. And because of that, we'll never have the close father and daughter bond I'd longed for when I was younger. But what happened _happened_, and you have to adapt to the circumstances dealt. We'll never be as close as he and his son, Ari, are, but we could still play a part in the other's life, even if it did happen to be small.

"Jeb stealing you away from me?" Fang asks when I end the call. He's rinsing his hands under the tap, his back to me.

"Just for a couple of hours," I answer. "Gonna grab a bite with him and Ari."

At the mention of my half-brother's name Fang turns round, his expression one of disgruntlement. "Your brother's evil," he states.

Rolling me eyes, I take a few steps towards him, cornering him. He folds his arms, challenging me to disagree.

"He's not that bad," I denounce. "You just don't like him because he accidently kicked you in the shin."

"Wasn't an accident."

"Was."

"It was as much of an accident as this," he declares, swiftly dipping his hand into the sink, collecting droplets of water, which he flicks at me.

I gape, startled, and then glare.

He's grinning, believing he's won, which he so hasn't, until I begin to tickle him. He jerks back instantly, elbows colliding with the counter.

My smile slips when I notice that mischievous spark alighting in his eyes.

I hold my hands up in surrender, steadfastly backing away from him as he comes closer. Damn. I think I know what he's –

"Fang. Put me down," I order.

He's slung me over his shoulder, my legs sticking out uselessly in front of him, my arms flailing behind him.

"Can't," he says, continuing his journey into the lounge.

Grunting in frustration, I tell him, "I hate you."

"You love me."

"You're an ass."

"You want to _touch_ my ass."

No matter how hard I try, I can't suppress the smile fighting its way onto my lips. The exchange was the revival of some banter we'd once participated in, long before I'd realised his words held some semblance of the truth.

We suddenly stop, and he throws me onto the settee. He soon joins me, stretching into a supine position.

And when I'm just about to slip into his open arms, I notice something on the coffee table in front of us; something I haven't seen in about a year and a half.

"What's Ambiguity doing out?" I ask, picking up the book.

He shrugs, taking the book from my hands.

"Just flicking through it the other day," he answers. He skims through the pages, stopping at a few before the end. "Did you ever read the end?" he asks.

At the shake of my head he turns a couple more pages. "It's a little…trite, perhaps, but it rings true," he says, handing me the book, his finger indicating where I should peruse over. It reads:

_Life is hard. It's filled with adversity; hardships, and it's damn right unpredictable. Yet it's the other qualities: the welcomed surprises and the wondrous experiences, that outshine its darker factions. _

When I've finished reading, his arms wind around me, looping around my waist. I lean back against his chest, revelling in his warmth and the feeling of security I've become so accustomed to feeling from them.

"It was something Samantha realised," Fang explains. "When I first read it, I thought it was the biggest load of bull ever. But then, after the doctor's declared Mom would be ok, and you told me you loved me, I changed my mind."

I shift my body towards him, facing him, and lean close. He's smiling broadly, eyes shining, before he kisses me. Our lips follow a familiar pattern, his hands tangling in my hair. I blindly place the book back on the coffee table, open, my hands then drawing around his neck, bringing us closer.

* * *

_The Epilogue of Ambiguity_

"_I'm back," Samantha calls, slinging her bag in the corner. "Jake?"_

_No reply._

"_David?"_

_Her keys rattle as she nervously twirls them around her finger, eyes frivolously scanning the empty room. Jack's schoolbag is half empty on the patterned rug, his books and a couple of pens scattered across. A couple of magazines rest on the new coffee table, a book resting precariously on the arm of the plush, red settee. _

"_We're back here." David's voice sounds strained from one of the rooms dotted around the outskirts of the lounge. Panic takes her for a moment, the events of the fire, two years prior, suddenly flitting through her mind._

_She practically runs into the room, relief instantly dousing her spark of fear. David's standing on top of a ladder, straining to reach the skirting board trailing around the top of the walls with his paintbrush._

"_Hey," Jake greets from his crouched position on the floor. He's clad in an old cartoon shirt, mixing the paint with a wooden stick. "David's almost finished. I've been helping him since I got back from school."_

"_That's great," she says, coming over to ruffle his unruly, auburn locks that so resembled her own. He swats her hand away playfully, a smile gracing his lips. She does a double take, still not accustomed to the absence of his chubby cheeks. He'd grown up a lot in the last two years, and at age twelve, would undoubtedly change even more._

_Ladders creaking under his weight, David steps down, coming up beside Samantha and her brother. "Hey," he says, wiping his paint slathered hands on some stray cloth. There's a white strip of paint across his forehead. Jake points, laughing, while Samantha takes a step closer, tugging the cloth from out of David's grasp. She brings her right hand up, holding the side of his head, while her left, holding the cloth, wipes it across, smearing the paint._

"_You've just made it worse," Jake laughs._

"_It doesn't matter," David says. He grins, his eyes solely focused on Samantha. She blushes. "I'll get cleaned up in a moment."_

"_Yuck, guys," Jake grumbles, "stop with all the goo goo eyes. It's just gross. I'm leaving."_

"_Get cleaned up," she shouts after him. "I'll be doing dinner soon."_

"_Yeah yeah. Whatever."_

_She rolls her eyes at his tone. And at this, David smirks._

"_You know," Samantha begins, her eyes taking in the finished room, "it looks great. I can't believe how quickly you've finished doing up the apartment."_

_He shrugs, modest, and begins folding up the ladder and fixing lids on the paint tins. "I wanted our home to be finished as soon as possible. I want everything to be perfect."_

_Samantha leads the way out of the room, David trailing not far behind her. She places her keys atop the fireplace, her eyes taking in the flowers she'd brought this morning to place on her mother's grave for the following day. It would be the two-year anniversary of her death tomorrow, the thought sending a pang of sorrow to shoot through her. A lot had happened since then, and yet it still doesn't seem all that long ago since her mother would stumble in after a late night of drinking. There are other memories, of course, in which her mother would push her on the swings when she was a girl, help her with her homework, brush her long hair, and hugging her when she'd had her bike stolen and she'd cried until she was spent._

_Arms are suddenly around her, bringing her back into contact with a firm chest. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to. She just needs to know he's there, and as he'd promised, he's not going anywhere. He gives her one last squeeze before slipping into the bathroom. She eventually moves, going to fetch some clean towels from the cupboard._

_Stripping off his paint-spotted shirt, David washes his hands in the bathroom sink, splashing some cool water on his face. Samantha passes him a towel, watching the tendons of muscle in his back and arms contract as he methodically washes his face._

_He catches the smile on her face in the mirror's reflection and turns round. "Enjoying the view?"_

"_Very much."_

_He grins, taking a step towards her. "How's college?"_

"_Good," she responds. "I've just been given another essay." She's still in her first year, having delayed her placement by a year. She would have rejected the offer completely, believing it would be out of the question now that her finances would be locked up in a new house and her father and other affairs. But David had introduced her to a charity he'd found, after much difficulty, having still refused to accept any money from him, that would give her financial aid. They would be funding her education for the first two years of her degree, leaving only the last year in which she'd be able to scrimp and save for in the time being._

"_I can cook tonight," David suddenly offers, lips curling upwards into a grin. "I can use you two as my guinea pigs for a new recipe I want to suggest at the restaurant tomorrow." He'd traversed from employment in three restaurants over the last two years, working his way up, until finally he found himself in the town's most esteemed restaurant, working under a chef he greatly admired. _

_Looking at Samantha now, seeing the light glow in her cheeks and the easy smile, he knows he's never been as happy as he is now. He never thought it would be possible to feel so much indefatigable optimism for the future, because he knows, with her here, and Jake, he could never ask for more._

_His eyes stray to the slim gold band on her left hand, her ring finger; a symbol of the promises he'd made to her after she'd confessed her love to him the night of the fire. He gently lifts the hand to his lips, kissing it. His eyes flit to hers. She's smiling, coming closer to him. And then he kisses her, something he hopes he'll be doing for years to come._

* * *

**In response to a query, in regards to chapter 23 and Max's charm bracelet (sorry if it was a bit confusing, I left it partially to interpretation), Max is supposed to have lost her charm bracelet, with Fang having later found it, but instead of retuning to her straight away, he had a charm engraved for her, giving it back to her on her birthday. **

**Once again, thank you for all your reviews – your tips and advice have been more than appreciated. Thanks to BrownieCrumbs, also, for being my unofficial beta reader.**

**I'm going to be taking a break from Maximum Ride stories, and will be focusing on stories invo****lving my own characters for a while. I hope those who read the first chapter of Homecoming are not disappointed.**

**This will be the final chapter now. I hope you've enjoyed the epilogue.**

**Thanks for reading. :)**

**Peace, love, and coca cola! **


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